#the last thing robert sees before dying
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IÂŽve got a million things to do but this was fun enough to try to do.Â
@sideblogformindtrash @milk-carton-whump definitely not prompted by our discord convo jajajaj
#the last thing robert sees before dying#jsjsjsj#art#illustration#doodle#sketch#ahh my sketches have turned so ugly#but welp#i barely even touch my pen anymore#so#not surprising#sann#whump art#whump#tw gun#crying#tw strangling
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kinktober day one: overstimulation with robert fischer
pairing: Robert Fischer x f!reader word count: 973 warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, Overstimulation, a smidge of non-con (youâll see when), Robert drives himself places because I said so a/n: HAPPY FIRST DAY OF KINKTOBER. I hope I make it through the whole thing. Enjoy day one!!!
Kinktober Masterlist
Friday nights were special to Robert. It was the one night a week he set aside for himself, and more specifically, for you.Â
He loved taking care of you. When everything felt like it was getting too much he turned to you.Â
You and Robert were out on a date at a beautiful restaurant on the water. You spent the night conversing and making him laugh. You truly did make him happy.Â
You wore his favorite dress on purpose. You knew heâd be dying to take it off by the end of the night. The deep green fabric hugged at your waist and stopped at the knee. You took his breath away the first time you wore it. And, he almost ripped a hole in it the first time he tried to take it off.Â
At the end of dinner, he gave the waiter his black Amex before he could even show him the bill. You had hearts in your eyes. You never expected the honeymoon period in your relationship to last over three years, yet here you were.Â
When the waiter returned to the table, Robert handed him a hefty cash tip. You both got up and Robert reached out his hand for you to grab. He guided you out of the restaurant. While outside the valet returned with his car.Â
Robert opened the door for you and you held his hand as you slipped into his silver Mercedes. He walked around to the driverâs side and got in quickly. Robert had one thing on his mind all night. He couldnât wait to get home and slip that pretty green dress off your body.Â
When he finally did get you both home he was kissing you before you were even through the threshold. He was hungry for you. He grabbed your wrist and dragged you up the stairs. When you got to your shared bedroom he took off his blazer and you took off your heels.Â
You reached for his suspenders and dragged them off his shoulders. He kicked off his shoes. Then, you untucked his shirt and started unbuttoning it quickly. Once it was off you dragged your hands across his chest.
He grabbed your chin lightly and brought his lips close to yours. âYou really want it tonight, donât you?â You could hear the smirk in his voice.
âReally fucking bad, Robert.â, you played along. Â
âYouâre gonna be begging me to stop, baby.â He kissed your neck.
You giggled and replied, âYeah, right.â
He pulled away and raised an eyebrow, ââYeah, right?â Do you think Iâm bluffing?âÂ
âYeah, maybe you are.â You had meant it in a joking manner, but you could tell it struck a chord.
He hummed and reached his hand to the back of your dress, unzipping it. He placed both hands on your shoulders and dragged the dress off you, exposing your breasts and a lacey excuse for underwear. He hooked his fingers over the hem and tore them off. The sound of fabric ripping cut through the silence.Â
His jaw clenched as he reached in between your legs, feeling how wet you were.Â
He spoke in a low tone, âI think tonight⊠Iâm gonna make you cum as many times as I say.âÂ
He pulled his hand away and dragged you to the bed. He took off the rest of his clothing and dove down on top of you. You giggled as you crashed down onto the mattress. You liked it whenever Robert got playful, but tonight it seemed like it was something beyond playful.Â
Tonight he wanted control.Â
You grabbed his cock and began to stroke it. He held in a moan and grabbed your wrist to stop you.Â
âNot tonight. Weâre doing something different tonight,â he grunted as he entered you quickly.Â
He hit a spot so deep your body jerked up. He started fucking you with reckless abandon, using his thumb on your clit to make you cum faster than you ever had. You squeezed his cock as you came.
He pulled out before he could cum and brought himself down to your clit. Before you could even recover his tongue was working on you.Â
Your voice was unstable, âRobert, what are you doing? Fuck.â
He didnât respond. He was too busy sucking on your clit. The sensation was taking over your body. It felt like pins and needles all over your skin. He made you cum again but didnât move away from you. He kept going, making your entire body shake. Whines and whimpers were all you were able to let out. Any words you had on your mind died before they even reached your tongue.
He got back into position and started to fuck you again. You were thrashing around underneath him. To put a stop to your convulsion, he pinned down your wrists and laid on top of you.Â
âPlease, Robert, enough!â, you pleaded.Â
He smirked, âTold you youâd be begging me to stop.âÂ
You wanted to be firmer in your reaction. Fight him. Scream at him to stop. But, you couldnât. Heâs never made you feel like this before. You were completely broken and it was the best youâve felt in ages.
He made you cum again and he let go of your wrists. You put your arms around his neck and pulled him in for a kiss. He fucked you through your orgasm. You were panting as he came inside you. He was loud tonight; his moans filled the room.Â
He pulled out and your body trembled. All the stimulation was a complete shock to your system. You thought it was over, but then you saw him crawling back to your pussy. He licked and you yelped, trying to close your legs as he held them open.
He fixed his hair and asked, âThink Iâm bluffing now?â
Taglist:
@devotedlyshadowytheorist, @dxnger-dxys, @tommyshelbywhore, @quinnlilias,@madnessandobsession, @mvpr-moon, @nela-cutie, @faebirdie, @charmed-asylum, @anasanthology, @ilikefictionalmen, @akanne-aka
(If something is up with your tag or you would like to be added, let me know!)
#kinktober â23#cillian murphy fic#cillian murphy#cillian murphy x reader#robert fischer smut#robert fischer x reader#annie writes
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the likeability complex.
chapter 3. the butterfly theory.
pairing. joel miller x fem!reader
synopsis. two seasons pass before joelâs very eyes and, without the presence of his sol, neither the spring nor the summer seem to heat his aching bones. whatâs meant to be a simple drop off at bill and frankâs becomes a whirlwind of events that send you barrelling right back into joelâs arms, and all it takes is one horrified shriek: otis is missing!
warnings. no use of y/n ( reader has the nickname of sol ), grumpy x sunshine dynamic, unspecified age-gap ( but i personally picture the reader to be mid-20s at this point in the story ), pining, love as obsession, mention of previous s.a. & miscarriage, death, reader is implied to have had a good relationship with her mom, smut ( handjobs, male masturbation, dry humping, joel is desperate and begging, fantasies of piv, oral sex, and anal sex, mentions of virginity loss/younger joel having been a milf lover )
word count. 14.3k
hydeâs input. instead of addressing the reasons it took so long for this part to come out, let me address this instead: joel miller is a man who loves himself some prone bone! nothing gets that old man off quite like fucking his lover down into the mattress, the carpet, the dirt-floor, full body weight pressed against them, head buried in the crook of their necks as he literally smothers them with his love. in this essay i will...â
read on ao3. series masterlist. previous chapter. following chapter
Time, as a matter of fact, does not fly.
At some point, Joel may have claimed it ticked, from one minute to another, until the hours passed by and another dayâs work was done. He can no longer agree with this sentiment, for a multitude of reasons. For starters â and perhaps the most obvious â a broken clock may be right twice a day, but it is eternally silent. The dials on his wrist stopped ticking long ago and, with it, so did time.
So maybe time crawls. Slow as a newborn finds its feet, over carpeted floors and through cramped spaces. It seems to do so in spring, the tease of the impending heat of a summerâs sun on his back while the fading chill of winter in the breeze messes his overgrown hair. Joel can almost feel himself bending to match itâs slow crawl, his knees aching, a few of his fingers breaking â the consequence of a sloppy punch, thumb trapped beneath his four curled fingers, thrown without a second thought at the sight of one of Robertâs lowlifes placing a filthy hand on Tess. At the very least, the assholeâs nose burst with a bloody red, a reminder of the roses in Frankâs garden.Â
The trading is kept to the boundaries of their gates this season and, no matter how hard he twists his neck, nor how far lets his eyes run off ahead of him, there is no glimpse of a skirt billowing in the wind, nor the sound of smile-woven words. Just Bill, face as scrunched up as a constipated hole, gruffing out the bare-minimum of words to let Tess know one of his generators is starting to fail, before handing over a list of things theyâll need to bring with their next visit.
Joel cranes his neck one last time before departing and, still, thereâs no sight of you.
Summer brings a whole new meaning to things and, thus, time begins to flow, like a river swimming towards the sanction of the ocean. The days wash away, sleepless nights slip into hellish mornings. The couch is being used so much that Joelâs indent has become stained into its very fabric.Â
This time, they are let in. Bill needs the help, in over his head with how easily heâd be able to fix the failing generator, and so they wind up being pulled through the gates and presented with the dying power source. Bill still wears a frown, even as he thanks Joel for fixing the damned thing. The four sit and break bread at a table, that seat which sits directly across from his empty in a way that he canât avoid or ignore. The nerves to ask why you arenât around never quite work themselves up.
What, or better said who, he does see is Otis. And what a relief it is to be sent near stumbling to his feet, the fully grown beastâs size a laughable contrast to its excited whines and wagging tail. He lets himself be tricked into taking the dog for a walk, in which every kick of Otisâ legs reminds Joel that his sol is still here, hiding in plain sight, not a single hope in hell that youâd leave your fur-friend behind.
In Autumn, the leaves begin to fall.
Joelâs dwindling hope seems to follow.
Time has become a threat. A jagged rock clasped in the hands of a volatile assailant. It is the impending feeling of bracing for impact, only for it to never hit. Because a threat can no longer be a threat once it is enacted, and time is no longer quite time once it passes by.
In between the pause of the present and the future, that is where time sits.
And, on either side of it, Joel and Bill occupy a seat.
ââS quiet,â Joelâs not talking about the tense silence that has blanketed the past ten or so minutes, however long itâs been since the two were left in no company but one anotherâs.
Bill, aware of his implications or not, shrugs. âIs that a problem?â
Joel shakes his head, and swallows down that lump he gets in his throat every time he lies. Heâs been doing that more often than heâd like recently, lying.
To Tess, whenever sheâd ask him where he disappears to, slipping out of their shared bed in the middle of the night. Sheâd not enjoy the truth of him pacing the living room and lamenting upon the cracked leather of their couch.
To FEDRA, when a group of so-called soldiers ambushed him in demands to know why heâd been spotted attempting to smuggle a dress. Theyâd not believed the tale he spun of it belonging to Tess.
And, to himself, when heâs searching for answers of whatâs been keeping him awake at night. Between the cries of whom he lost, and the moans of who he desires, heâs a sleepless wreck.
Laughter comes from another room. The distant duo of Tess and Frank bring more life to this deadly atmosphere than either of the two tense men. Theirs is a complicated relationship. No smiles exchanged, no warmth shared. Respect seems to be the glue that holds them together, a mutual understanding between natural protectors. Just as Joel snaps his bones without hesitation on behalf of Tess, Bill double-locks the doors and secures the perimeter each night as Frank and you lay sound asleep.
With this in mind, Joel treads with care as he descends further into the topic at hand. He decides to treat his own self the same way heâd once taught a stubborn curly haired girl to swim: throwing himself into the deep end.
âAinât seen much of your...â He pauses, considers what word best suits Billâs affections for you. He finds himself at a loss. âThe girl. She doinâ alright?â
Thatâs it, heâll keep it casual.
Passive, hardly-caring.
Totally not headache-inducing each time a new tally is added to how many days itâs been since heâd last seen you â two hundred and four, but whoâs keeping count?
âSheâs fine,â the answer is curt. A coughed out sort of thing, heaved out of Bill like it aches to even speak. Heâs not entertaining Joelâs longing.
âThatâs... good, yeah,â heâs not sure he believes his answer. Good has never sounded so distasteful. âIâll let Tess know, give âer some peace of mind. Sheâs been wonderinâ-â
âCut the shit,â Bill barks over at him. âYou arenât asking for Tess.â
He could try lie, again. Play the innocent, shrug his shoulders or furrow his brows, an image to mock what could be confusion. But the other man would see right through him, each and every time. Joel has no choice but to surrender. âWhereâs she been? Canât remember the last time I saw her.â
âDidnât realise you were keeping count.â Is it that obvious? Perhaps he needs to adopt a new method of going about the ways in which he approaches the subject of you. Does Bill know heâd gone back to your room that night, instead of the toilet? The man has a fondness for cameras, perhaps he set one up in your room, or all over the house. Joelâs heart-rate spikes as he wonders if thereâs one in the kitchen. âSheâs out.â
Out.
A simple enough word, yet it crashes down on Joel like a ten-ton bag of dynamite, imploding his thoughts and reality. Because out to Bill means something far different than merely being out of this house. Out means beyond the electrified gates. Out means danger, someplace Joel canât stomach the thought of you being, much less if itâs without him.
âYou sure thatâs the right thing to do?â
âI donât need your opinion on how I raise-â Bill cuts himself off with a deep breath. He clears his throat. âI donât need your opinion on how I take care of my people. Sheâs a smart girl, and itâs not her first time. Sheâs been going on solo runs since the end of winter.â
An act youâd never have been able to achieve, had he not taught you how to hold your own behind the wheel. That fact alone is enough to send bile burning to the back of his throat. Heâs scorned you with the ability to put yourself in harmâs way.
A question of why seems to slip past his lips as his own thoughts abuse his heart, the word sounding far too pathetic and pleading for a man of Joelâs stature, reputation and morals.
âWeâre old, she isnât. Thereâs gonna come a day where sheâs alone and needs to choose if she wants to stay here or move on.â The other manâs risen from his seat, paying no mind to the way the legs of it screech against the hardwood floor. He speaks passively, as though heâs merely reciting the weather as opposed to speaking of the approaching closing of the curtains on his life, and where that would leave the most valuable possession Joel could only ever dream to smuggle: alone, defenceless, in need of a new home. He too could use a new home these days. âAnd if she doesnât get a choice and has to run, she needs to be able to adapt. She needs to know how to survive out in that shit-hole of a world.â
Ask me, the words crack like thunder in his head and shake his very core. Ask it of me, and Iâll make sure sheâs never alone.
Bill never asks.
The floorboards creak behind Bill as he makes his way to retrieve his partner, leaving Joel to his solitude without the sparing of another word.
Scanning the room, Joel lets himself indulge in the freedom to be curious, to let his eyes wander for more than a few threatened seconds in which he runs the risk of a frowning Bill ringing his neck for snooping.
The place is homey, that has never been in doubt.
The first time he ventured inside nearly left him retching on their bathroom floor, skin chilled and eyes burning as that uncanny-valley feeling overtook his guts. Playinâ house, thatâs what heâd proclaimed to Tess on that first journey back to the QZ. Rest âf us are out here fightinâ for the right to exist, and these two assholes are playinâ house.
The misplaced anger was truly Joelâs green eyed envy.
And his own self-hatred.
Maybe if heâd been prepared like Bill, heâd have less blood on his hands. Maybe if heâd foreseen the day that shit would hit the fan, heâd never have felt how thick her blood ran, through his fingers and down his arms. Maybe if he thought smarter, worked harder, all his losses would have been nothing but a whisper in passing winds, brushing past him and taking the impending storm they promised over to the next unfortunate bastard.
A polaroid picture captures his attention, pulling him away from the edge of his mountain of self-loathing thoughts.
It lures him out from the safety of the dining table and over towards a cabinet. Meaningless memorabilia and porcelain trinkets decorate the ageing furniture, a blob of motionless browns, tans and beiges that seem to match the colourless feeling in his chest. Among it, a burst of red. Joel has it in his grasp in a matter of seconds, calloused hands likely tainting the image with his fingerprints, and blinks in an attempt to focus his ageing eyes.
When the haze settles, you greet him.
You look young, younger than you are now. Your hair seems just that tad lighter with the sunâs rays shining a spotlight somewhere off-camera to the right. Thereâs a cheek-splitting grin across your lips, while bags puff out from beneath your closed eyes, lines to match his own crowâs feet forming under the pressure of your radiant joy. The image cuts off just below your shoulders and captures how your two hands sit parallel at either side of your chin, the source of the red gripped in each of them: strawberries. One for each hand. The left has a chunk bitten out of it, a perfect match to the shape of your mouth and the red tint at the corner of your lips. But itâs the right hand that holds his attention, itâs grip on him as powerful as your hand on the strawberry. He imagines you were excited, buzzing with too much energy and with no place to put it, your nimble fingers resorting to burying it in the layers of the fruit, the tips of your nails stabbing into the surface of the berry.
As his gaze traces the grainy image of berry-blood pouring down your fingers and over the back of your hand, he pictures his heart in the place of the red fruit. Heâd want you to squeeze tighter, dig your nails in until youâre knuckles deep and his blood paints you, dripping off your elbow.
The thought of whether you washed your hand after the image was taken, or merely shrugged and licked the juice off yourself sparks his curiosity.
He snuffs the flame out before it can make itself too comfortable.
Getting the polaroid back into place feels an impossible task, with Joelâs shaky hands and prone-to-overthinking brain not willing to work together to get it back to where it originally sat, to where Bill wonât immediately notice itâs been tampered with the next time he so much as walks past it.
His eyes catch onto the faded black marker at the bottom of the picture. Babyâs first harvest, â13.
It sparks a memory in him, one of hearing your overexcited whispers over the radio-com at an hour far too late to justify being awake, Tessâ figure scooted down to the bottom of the mattress in an attempt to not waken him. Strawberries, Tess, youâd gushed in excitement, voice so pure he could feel it cleansing away all the sins stained within his fingerprints. We grew strawberries! You need to come visit soon! Do you think Joel likes strawberry jam?
He does like strawberry jam.
And heâd been afraid youâd never give him another batch after his dismissive acceptance of it the first time. The growing collection of empty jars he keeps are evidence of the truth, the yearly harvest of the berries bringing him the promise of something to feed his sweet-tooth.
With a baritone growl from his stomach, Joelâs attention carries him off into the kitchen, eyes struggling to look past the spot of the counter heâd had you pressed up against. Only now, standing within the room, does he realise heâd not been in it since that night.
His mouth runs dry at the memory.
This time, it is not through messy scoops of water that he chooses to quench this thirst. Instead, he zeroes in on the large bowl of ripened strawberries that sit atop the counter and digs, till his fingers wrap around the largest, reddest, juiciest looking one of the bunch.
Heaven makes a home on his taste buds with just one bite.
Tangy, fruity, fresh. Wet on his tongue, delicious in his mouth. It paints him memories of you, hand grasping the hem of your own skirt, hips tilting ever-so-slightly back and thighs shaking under the stress of his teasing tongue.
A second bite, a whole new wave of sensations.
His body, with a mind of its own, awakens the pumping of blood down to his crotch. Replaying the sound of your knife falling from your grasp, his cock hardens within the confines of worn-out jeans.
If he were to disappear off into the bathroom to rub one out, would the others even notice?Â
Perhaps he could take a detour, get lost on his way to that familiar toilet. The third door. It would creak upon opening, but maybe he could cover it with a cough, or simply pray the other three remain too far away to notice. From what he can remember, heâd be able to reach your bed with four steps. Sit on your sheets, bask in their warmth, their softness, their smell of you. Wind his hand down beneath his belt, grip his aching cock as he bathes in your unpresent presence. Stain your sheets in the thick, creamy white poison that shoots out his tip. How long would it take you to notice it painted on the back of your pillowcase? Would it happen instantly, or would it be late into the night, nothing but a lamp to light up the room, as you sleepily flip it over in search of the cold side, only to lay your face back down and be met with the sticky substance against your cheek? Would you lick it clean, drag the tip of your nail through it before caressing that very same finger over your pretty clit and-
âOk, so I didnât manage to get, like, anything you guys asked for! But, guess what I did find?â
Joel nearly chokes on the stem of the strawberry.
That voice.
Too kind to be Bill, too lively to be Tess, too feminine to be Frank.
Itâs all you, rambling over excited breaths and stumbling around your words. He canât see you yet, and it nearly kills him to not run off in search of the sound. He needs to sit and wait, and pray the tent being pitched in his trousers deflates by the time you reach him.
Youâre getting closer by the second and life grants him no relief. If anything, the pulsating ache that sits between his thighs grows stronger as your footsteps get louder. This is it, heâs really about to see you. Finally, after so long.
What will you say? Will you say anything? Will you smile at the sight of him? Have you noted the lack of him in your days, just as heâd lamented it through his nights? Have you missed him?
Mind a frenzy of questions, it steals away the joy of watching you step into the room.
Instead, you seem to almost manifest before his eyes, two steps through the door and two hands behind your back. Scanning you from head to toe â and confirming a lack of bumps, cuts or bruises â his shoulders fall slack as he reaches your face at last.
You are smiling.
At him.
âHowdy, stranger!â Normally, heâd find your attempt to mimic some poor stereotype of his accent irritating at best, infuriating at worst. Right now, however, still riddled in withdrawals of you, Joel allows a corner of his mouth to quirk up. âLong time no see!â
Thereâs a million things Joel thinks to say to you.
Like how your absence has been painfully noted. Or tips on the proper ways to throw a punch, lest you wind up like him, bruised fingers and all. Or like the way heâs missed tasting your cooking, and the way you standing there, lit up in the doorway, radiant smile and electric eyes, seems to be healing a little piece of his fragmented heart, yet shaking his nerve-stricken hands. None of these thoughts manage to reach the surface.
Instead, Joel inhales.Â
And chokes on the stem of the strawberry.
âOh my god, Joel!â Youâre quick to react, shrugging off the bag from your shoulder and rushing over to him. You clap your hand over his back several times, and perhaps itâs the heat of feeling you touch some part of him at last, that final piece of confirmation that youâre real, and breathing, and standing so close to him in this kitchen, but he continues to feign choking even moments after he rids himself of the blockage. âYou okay there, big guy? Donât go dying in this kitchen or else Billâs gonna lose his shit!â
Big guy. Thatâs new. Joelâs indecisive as to how he feels about such a name.
He means to say heâs fine, but then your hand is soothing over his back in comforting rubs. And when he works up the nerve to tell you heâs okay, youâre holding a glass up to his lips and feeding him water down his burning throat.
Itâs nice to be comforted.
Itâs even nicer to be comforted by you.
Catching himself moments away from leaning into your touch, Joel stumbles a single step back, colliding with the very same counter edge heâd tasted you against, and looks past you. Because he canât look at you, not when the unfocused version of you that takes up space in his peripheral seems so tangible, bright, touchable. If Joel wanted to, heâs mere inches away from being able to sink his teeth in and eat you alive.
Itâs dangerous, how much he wants to.
He spies your backpack, discarded on the ground, contents from it spilling out across the tiled flooring. Most of its junk â some nuts and bolts heâs sure Bill will find a place for, scraps of papers and faded movie posters that reminisce on what the world once was, a miscellaneous cloth stained in the red ink of death that has Joel questioning just who exactly had been bleeding â but thereâs something else capturing his attention.
Itâs not fully out of the bag, merely a corner of it peeking out the pulled-back zipper and gifting him the view of a worn-down box heâs sure was once a colour more akin to yellow than its current rotting brown.
ââS that ya got?â He slips past you, hands reaching out and heading straight for the obscure item. The cardboard welts under the pressure of his grip, the top of the box popping open with an uncomfortable ease.
âOh, thatâs what I wanted to show Frank-â The moment Joelâs eyes read over the faded slogan, he has no time to wait on a real answer, flipping the lid to a trash can open and dangling the box over the top. âHey, what are you doing?!â
âThrowinâ this shit out-â Youâre near him. No, next to him, body heat mingling with his own as you shoot forward and try your luck at prying your treasure out of his grip. But Joel is stronger, larger, quicker, arm stretching up above his head and holding the box out of your reach.Â
He doesnât comment on the fact the little jump you give as you try to reach only invites him to ogle the bounce of your tits under your shirt.
 âWhy? Itâs harmless,â you plead against him, with your tone of voice and your eyes of sorrow, pitiful in the way they twist up his insides and leave him craving your blinding smile. Still, heâs an immovable force, grip tightened on the box as his other hand clamps down around your wrists, prying your hands away from him. âItâs literally just cake mix!â
You fight back, wriggling and squirming, trying your best to slip through his fingers. Joel squeezes tighter, ignoring the bile that burns the back of his throat as he pictures you come sunrise, bruises of his fingerprints burnt into your flesh. A new wave of nausea follows as the familiar heat returns to his loins, a feral part of him preening at the fact youâll own some part of him, even as heâs miles away and crawling back through the gutters of the QZ.
âAinât no way in hell I'm lettinâ you eat that.â He says it for your own good, your own safety.
All the same, the eerie calm that comes over you makes him feel dirty and immoral for letting such words slip out.
âLetting me?â You parrot his words. With frozen features, you seize all fighting, all resistance, hands going slack in his hold. An unsettling smile overcomes you, something malevolent lurking beneath the surface of your typical kindness. âJoel, youâre no one to let me do anything. You have no say, no control, whatsoever. Understand?â
Itâs a kick in the guts.
And not because he wants to control you. Or, maybe, if heâs honest with himself, a part of him does want to. Wants to keep you wrapped under his arm where no threat can approach you, longs to spend his working days awaiting the return to safety in the shape of a bed warmed by you, him and all the delicate sins you could share. But, more-so, because it makes him feel powerless, unable to put distance between you and harmâs way.
Heâd felt true powerlessness years back, blood on his hands and a lifeless daughter in his arms. A shot missed and a whole lot of sobbing later, heâd vowed to never put himself in a position to feel that again. He kept Tommy close, to an obsessive degree. And when Tess came along and he eventually let himself give into the feeling of accepting another pair of lungs into his family, he kept her closer, living a life of keeping a watchful eye and a ready hand for any moment of violence. Heâd do the same with you, if youâd just let him pull you into his circle, a space freed up ever since Tommy left him with nothing but a string of curses and an I donât ever wanna see your face again to remember him by.
Of course, Joel doesnât tell you that.
Instead, he gives in to the irrational anger your fighting back awakens in him.
âThe flour, you stupid girl, âs what started all this shit.â He spits the words out, mind barely registering the way you flinch back when his face inches closer to yours. âBut if you wanna turn yourself into some mushroomed freak, then go âhead and be my guest.â
Itâs like a fog clears and, suddenly, your calmness feels less threatening and that tinge of whatever it was â violence, disobedience, assertiveness? â in your eyes slips away and makes space for amusement. Only, the amusement will not sit still, seeping out of you in bright eyes and poorly held-back giggles.
Heâs so caught up in it, caught up in you, that he fails to register you stepping closer. Itâs only when he feels the brush of your breath against his cheek, and the bump of his nose against your own as he leans down into you, that the lack of space between you sinks in.
âYou donât have to worry about me, Joel.â The biggest lie of the century. Heâs well aware of your prone-to-accident self, losing count of the amount of times heâs spotted bruises all over you and listened to Frank recount tale after tale of how youâd walked into a door, and stumbled down some stairs, and tripped over your laces. If anything, youâre the only thing Joel has to worry about. Especially with how much closer youâre getting, your own breath starting where his ends, chest pulling in to inhale and make space for his exhale. Perfect sync, a flowing motion, just begging to be ruined by locked lips and urgent kisses, feaverish passion thatâll leave him at a loss of both words and breath. âBesides, this batch is harmless...â
God, youâre so close. All he can smell is you â sweat, and wilted flowers, and vanilla, and a trickle of gunpowder. He can feel you, breasts pressing against his chest, hand pressing down on his aching shoulders, mouth taunting him a hairâs breadth away from his own. What he sees of you is far more torturous, bathing him in the impurity of coy looks, and teasing smiles, and soft skin yet to be marked by time and the torture of living. If Joel could just taste you, for just a second, then all those two hundred and four brutal days and sleepless nights would suddenly feel worth it.
Your eyes level with his own as the hand on his shoulder pushes him further down. Itâs going to happen, he knows this, heâs accepted this. Youâre going to kiss him, and heâs going to let you, and then heâs going to spend the rest of however long it takes for you to kiss him again thinking of how your lips feel.
Just a little closer...
Thatâs it. Kiss him.
Kiss him.
God, please. Kiss me.
âCheck the production date for yourself!â Like whiplash, you pull back and send him reeling, muscles stiffening in a rapid attempt to keep him from keening over at the loss of your supportive hold. The disappointment that follows robs him of the horror of realising heâs now empty-handed, the withered box of artificial flavours and powdery evils secured tightly in your own grip.
Youâre holding it out to him, finger pointing at a faded black ink. He squints his eyes and, sure enough, there it is: Mfg. 2001.
âStill donât mean you should eat it,â Joelâs stubborn, despite all, and canât seem to tamper down the burning in his loins that warns him against you eating such a thing. ââS gonna be long past its sell-by.â
âPlease,â you scoff, a snark-filled smile upon your face. You seem to be enjoying this act of defiance, or perhaps itâs the helplessness upon Joelâs face you find amusement in, torturing the older man with his inability to take care of you. âSell-bys are just recommendations for the weak-stomached.â
A disturbance comes in the sound of thundering steps. The door behind you slams open, handle leaving its indent in the wall with a brutal force.
There stands Tess, a shine of sweat on her forehead and nervous twitching in her fingers.
Something is wrong.
Joel feels sick.
Merely a moment passes before the two owners of the home join the scene, Frankâs hand nervously tugging back on Billâs arm the moment the man notices you, Joel and the nonexistent space that lives between you both.
âTess!â Bless, you seem unaware of the heavy atmosphere settling within the kitchen, throwing your arms out and darting forward to wrap them around the older woman. She halts you, holds you just that bit out of reach, and Joel nearly scolds her for leaving you looking like a lost puppy, deflated as your hands come to rest at your sides once more, cake-mix forgotten in your newfound disillusion and hitting the floor with a muted thud as it slips out your sweaty palms. âWhatâs wrong? Why are you breathing so heavily?â
âMe and Frank... we were walking...â She keeps pausing to heave in breaths. The grip sheâs got on you loosens and her hands slowly come to rest on her knees as she haunches over. Joel steps a little closer to you, hackles rising at the thought of danger. âA hole... Under the fence...â
Red alert. Loud, angry, threatening thoughts invade his mind, blaring at him like a siren refusing to go ignored. Heâs got his fingers wrapped around the holster that houses his revolver in a matter of seconds. The safetyâs on, heâll need to remember that before he dares use it.
âHow many?â He mumbles out, in true Joel fashion, and watches Tess meet his face at last. Confusion flashes through her features. âRaiders, infected, or whatever. How many of âem got in?â
He canât help the anger that rises in him, teeth grinding down to hold back the curses aimed towards Bill. He warned him, that first time theyâd met, to upgrade those damn fences.
âNo,â Tess struggles in another breath. Frank seems worried, but thatâs not what makes Joel sick to his stomach. Itâs Bill, whoâs pale as a ghost and uncomfortably quiet, eyes locked on the ground, that scares him half to death. âNothingâs got in. Itâs out, something got-â
âI swear I turned my back for one second, kid,â as if everything else wasnât enough, Bill makes himself gentle and cautious, approaching you like youâre a wounded fawn and Joelâs some menacing stag behind you, ready to stab his horns into the heart of any who mean you harm.
âWhat-â you start.
âThe hell are you lot talkinâ about?â Joel finishes.
They exchange looks among the three of them, each one more pressing in the way they plead the other to speak up, explain the situation.
Frank takes the fall.
âItâs Otis,â heâs exasperated, exclaiming it like itâs the heaviest of burdens. Joel canât quite see your face but he imagines whatever expression youâre wearing must be heart-wrenching, so much so that Bill can not bring himself to meet your eyes. âOtis is missing!â
Thereâs a sharp silence that takes over the room, scratching at everyoneâs eyes and burrowing itself down your throats, making a nest that gets in the way of whatâs spoken aloud.
Joel watches your head sluggishly nod. You stumble a few steps back, catching his boots beneath the heel of your own. His hands make haste with supporting you, physically and emotionally.
âHe was with me this morning,â Bill picks up again, tension thick in the air as his words slice through it. Heâs explaining himself, voice layered with guilt and other emotions Joelâs never imagined the man capable of. âOut in the chicken coop. Started barking at something past the fence and... none of us have seen him since.â
The revelation has Joel retracing his own steps and, indeed, no four-legged creature had launched itself at him earlier, as he and Tess entered the gates. Nor had any paw-prints followed his footsteps through the mud, and no ball had been dropped before him, followed by a demanding bark that was guaranteed to get him to give in and throw the damned thing, if only to shut the dog up. Otis has not crossed his path once, a realisation he never imagined would bring him desperation.
A deep gasp cuts through the tension.
A few deep breaths. Four, to be exact. As you attempt a fifth, you waver and your exhale grows shaky. You pull air in deeper and it doesnât seem to be enough, forcing your mouth open. The descent into hyperventilating is quick, a path Joelâs all-too familiar with, and the panic swells through your heart before anyone can try to stop it.
Joel acts fast, instinct leading his actions. He turns you to face him, grip firm on your shoulders as he holds your attention on him, big hands on your soft cheeks and tilting your head back to find your eyes. Glassy, wide, panicked. It's the hopelessness behind them that gets the best of him though.Â
âHeâs fine, alright? Probably just saw some rabbit he wanted to chase.'' It's hard for a man like him to sound optimistic. Were you anyone else, heâd be telling you how dumb you were to keep a pet in the first place, nothing more than another mouth to feed and another life to watch out for in an age where safety is a luxury. But you arenât anyone else, and Joel Miller will always be partial to his Sol. âHey, hey, listen tâme. Heâs gonna be okay. Bet heâs out there right now tryna find his way back, we just gotta meet him halfway.â
You nod along to his words, as though youâre listening, but your thousand-yard-stare says otherwise, eyes gazing past his wide shoulders. Unblinking, unmoving, you seem lost in a daze of emotions Joel's never prepared himself to see on your features. It twists at his guts to watch your figure attempt to follow him in the first steps he takes away from you, halted only by his own hands clasping down on your frame, coaxing you backwards until you find grip upon the kitchen counter.
After a cautious step back, eyeing you like youâre a wounded bunny two seconds from bolting, he turns to Bill. âGive me a few hours. Iâll track the dog and bring him home, alright?â
A half hour, a packed bag, and a rifle slung over his shoulder later, Joel finds himself at the scene of the crime, chicken shit on his shoes and his usual scowl on his face. Not having even stepped a foot out of the gated paradise and heâs already encountered his first obstacle: Otis has not clawed his way out of the fence but, instead, dug his way under it.
Fresh mud lays ahead, faint yet visible paw-prints lead off into the array of woods. He grabs a hold of the fenceâs newly exposed bottom and justifies the way he further destroys it, bending the metal to his will and proning his way under it, with his faith in Bill's ability to fix the hole up in the time it takes him to find the creature.
Moving to a crouch, and ignoring the crunch of his bent knees, he eyes up the prints in the mud. The sight of only one set of tracks gives him a fleeting moment of comfort, until the thought of Otis having chased after something already so far in the distance pops into his head.
Your voice calls out his name from behind.
Sweat slicked skin, your fingers grab at the wiry fence, ripping the thing up with far less care Joel had given it. Bill will still find a way to blame him for the extended damage.
âI'm coming with you,â you speak with such determination behind your voice, Joel nearly forgets to actually pay attention to what youâre saying.
His reaction is instinctual, shooting back to hold the fence down, struggling to keep you within its confines, gritting out a firm no. âYou sure as hell ainât.â
âYes, I am.â You tug uselessly at the fence. The wires stretch a third time, until a few snap.
âNo.â
He holds his ground.
âYes.â
You wriggle a hand under the fence, an action that forces him to loosen his grip. He canât risk harming you, not even for your own good.
âNo, you are-â
âJoel, please,â thereâs exhaustion in your plea. A hint of desperation, too. He catches how you glimpse over your shoulder and observes the only item you carry â a distressed looking stuffed bunny with an ear missing. You glance over your shoulder again and it hits Joel. Youâre nervous, in a rush. Youâre here without anyoneâs knowledge, that same look of panic in your eye as a teenager sneaking out of their window. âJust- I donât want to sit around doing nothing. I want to find Otis.â
Talking is limited.
Instead, what fills its place is the sound of crunching leaves beneath heavy boots, and birds cawing and cooing in the trees above, and your incessant need to hum along to some melody playing in your head, distracting Joel to a dangerous degree.
This distraction leads to a close encounter, one where itâs only your swallowed scream as you stumble closer to him in fear, body seeking out some form of protection â he canât tell if you view him as a mere shield or a sworn knight prepared to draw his weapons and, frankly, he winds up too caught up in your hands grabbing at his sides and your shaken figure melting against his own to care â that clears the haze in his eyes and sets his sights straight, gun drawn and aimed directly at the infected creature running towards you both.
He misses his first shot â shaky hands, one he partially blames on your proximity and the adrenaline it brings â but makes up for it in his second one, shooting point blank range and sending the creature crumbling to the ground, a bullet-hole in its forehead.
You both wait a few minutes, listening out for anymore rustling, before Joel deems things safe enough to continue and motions you with his head to follow.
From then on, you stick closer, alternating between walking a step or two ahead or behind him. He keeps a grip on the gun, unwilling to reholster it, and wordlessly hands you a shiv he has, ignoring the way you seem to perfectly curl your fingers around the weapon and practise a swinging motion, stabbing at the air with a deadly confidence Joel's never imagined to associate you with.
It forces him to rethink everything heâs come to believe about you over the years, and requestion just how exactly youâd wound up under Billâs roof.
You interrupt his thoughts, the first to speak as always.
âIf you donât mind me asking-â
âI do.â
Undeterred, you smile and push through with your probing. âWho taught you to shoot?â
âMy old man,â it takes him a few minutes to gruff it out. Or maybe itâs a bit longer than a few minutes, the sunâs shine seeming a lot less dim from when youâd asked. You say nothing, however, donât even gasp in surprise at his eventual answering. âDragged me out back to where heâd tied up our dog, poor thing had been sick for a while. Told me we werenât goinâ back in till I shot it. Mustâa stood there for hours.â
And that was that.
As much as Joel had felt you wanting to say more, youâd dropped the subject â maybe youâd noticed the dullness in his voice or the way his grip on his gun had tightened â and heâd never been more grateful for your ability to read him, without him even needing to open his pages for you.
You make camp by nightfall.
A clearing amongst the wooden areas, small enough to keep you hidden yet big enough to stretch out your legs. you ask for a campfire, and Joel denies you of it. âS too risky, heâd explained the instant he caught you deflating his objection. Donât need no smoke signals bringing us any unwanted visitors.
Heâd given you the coat off his back instead, a token to heat yourself up with as the pair of you quietly ate away at the tin-can meal Joel had been saving for the journey back to the QZ.
Chef Boyardee has never tasted better, however, after watching you place the can up to your lips and tilt your head back, swallowing down the artificial flavouring.
You donât seem to agree, grimacing at the taste. âI donât know how you can eat that.â
âIf you think thatâs bad, you donât wanna know what theyâre feedinâ us in the QZ.â Itâs a privilege youâll never understand, this sheltered life you lead among Billâs traps and fences. You eat fresh eggs, and cook red meat, and nurture food out of the ground, while Joel fights tooth and nail to scrape up some measly ration cards. Oddly enough, he's not angry at your lack of understanding. Heâs glad, happy you have a quality of life far better than his own.
âI'm surprised they feed you at all,â for all your grimacing, youâve yet to stop taking mouthful after mouthful of the canned food. You must not have eaten much out on your run, Joel concludes. âConsidering you eat Bill out of his whole stock each time you visit.â
He wants to defend himself, tell you itâs not true. Tell you itâs only the food prepared by your gentle hands and caring soul that he devours, in chase of satisfying another hunger he should not dare place upon you. That it is nothing more than Joel settling for a piece of your love, hoping that if he takes enough bites and chews enough times, itâll seep into his skin, his bones, his bloodstream. Itâs the only way he figures he can hold a piece of your heart next to his, until it stops beating.
But that is a burden a man like him does not place on a woman like you, so he bites his tongue and swallows down the rest of his dinner.
âThe hell are we, middle-schoolers?â
A squawk of birds fly from their perch in the trees above, spooked by the unexpected boom of Joelâs voice. Itâs an accident, flying out of him before he can really stop it and consider the dangers of loudly proclaiming your whereabouts to anything â living or dead â within a ten mile radius to hear. But youâre being ridiculous.
Your suggestion is ridiculous.
And youâre shushing him, a giggle behind the index finger you press to your lips, eyes shooting up to where the birds have fled, catching the reflection of the stars in your pupils and knocking the wind out of his chest, momentarily, with how bright they seem to shine.
âNo, weâre two adults about to engage in a serious game of 21 Questions,â you speak like you live: much softer than Joel. No creature seems to hurry away at the sound of it and, in the fading memories he possesses, he can almost picture your voice drawing in all the critters of the forest, like that Disney princess sheâd loved so much. âAnd that counts as one of your questions, by the way."
He has no plans on entertaining your childish play. Heâll sit there, heâll watch out for any suspicious shadow lurking about in the dark, heâll listen to whatever ridiculous questions you throw at him, and heâll let you talk yourself silly, going in circles as he remains mute, and observant, and completely unwilling to answer to any of your-
âWhich means,â you drag out the word, a sing-songy melody to your voice. âItâs my turn to ask you something, mister.â Mister. A warmth blooms in the pits of his stomach, one that threatens to creep lower, beneath the waistband of his blood-stained jeans. âWhatâs your favourite colour?â
If looks could kill, youâd likely still be alive.
Perhaps a little bruised, but itâs the worst stare Joel can will himself to pin you with. No doubt, it feels more threatening to you that it truly is, splashed across his stoic face.
âWhat?â You question, and somehow have the nerve to laugh. âItâs like⊠The most common question people ask in this game. That, or who took your virginity, and I really donât think you want to tell me-â
âIâd just gotten my first job as a pool-boy. Pay was shit, but it covered my gas and left me enough to buy a six pack and a tub of wings,â the words fly out of him with an ease they never have before. Somehow, this feels easier, less intimate than matters like his favourite colour. When he thinks that answer is enough, he finds your face, expectations written across it. Youâre waiting to know more. âI ended up with a few shifts working for one of our neighbours. She was a friend of my momâs, recently divorced, and with a whole new body sheâd bought with the divorce settlements.â
A spark of amusement flares in your eyes, that pretty smile stretching over your lips. He purses his own, trying not to think of pressing them against your mouth. Youâd still taste of the canned food you â reluctantly â devoured and, somehow, the thought messes his head up even more, the potential taste of the food, of the care he had been the one to provide you with.
âThat sounds like the beginning to a really bad porno,â you muse. Joel watches how you sit up a little straighter, legs tucking themselves up against your chest, chin resting atop your knees, arms engulfing yourself in their warmth, nose turning to take a quick inhale of his coat. He hopes heâll smell you on it, too, next time he does the same.
âSurprised you even know what that word means,â he regrets it the moment he says it, that sickening reminder of your youth against his own ageing disgrace. He doesnât know the exact years, but he know the difference would surely be enough to disgust a younger version of himself, the young father who once scowled at the sight of grey-haired men trailing their eyes down the bodies of wide-eyed girls, giggling by the bar as they flashed their fake-ids and sipped their first taste of â horrifically overpriced â alcohol.
âPorno?â You cut through his train of thoughts, unknowingly saving him from the downward spiral into memories best left behind, before the world went to shit. âYouâd be surprised what a little bit of courage and a whole load of ration cards gets you past FEDRA.â
That word, that name, that organisation, it sets off an alarm in Joelâs brain, red-alert and siren sounding. And it pulls forth a question, echoing in the woods before he even realises heâs speaking his thoughts aloud.
âYou were in a QZ? You werenât always with Bill?â
âPittsburg QZ, if you want to get technical. And then Hartford. No, I wasnât always with Bill.â He tries to picture it: you, confined to the horrors of city living, bargaining things for survival, facing the harshness of the power-tripping FEDRA officers. The thought proves too disconcerting, so out of line with the you who exists only within the confines of safety and comfort in his mind, that Joel has to stop himself from imagining more, imagining worse. You and pain do not, should not ever exist in the same space, not if Joel can do anything about it. âAnd those count as two separate questions, so now I get to do the same.â
He hadnât even meant to play into it, entertain your silly game. Heâd just needed reassurance, answers, to know no scars litter your skin and no wound has fractured your psyche. But youâve given him none of that. No comfort for his ailing soul, more questions for his troubled mind.
âWas it a one time thing,â unaware, or simply desensitised to his ways, you continue on with your questions, despite the frown he feels wrinkling at his forehead. âWith your neighbour?â Heâs glad to see you bring the conversation back to his own debauchery.
âNo.â
âOoh, scandalous! Joel Miller, local pool-boy turned toy-boy.â If he wasnât so busy fighting off images of you, young and scared, standing before armed FEDRA soldiers, Joel might have found it in him to crack a half smile at the amusement the sexual endeavours of his youth seem to gift you. âDid you fuck any other of your clientele, or were you and Miss Recent-Divorcee exclusive?â
âNo,â he says once more, then quickly clarifies. âI didnât sleep with other clients. But also no, we werenât exclusive.â
âDid your mom-â
ââS my turn, darlinâ,â Joel surprises even himself, cutting in before you can sneak a third question his way. Itâs like it finally hits him, the way this game has handed him the opportunity of a lifetime to learn the answer to any question heâs ever pondered over you. But all other questions, topics, seem to slip out his conscienceâs grasp, like sand slipping through fingers, as he feels himself dragged further into the fear youâve awoke within him, a fresh layer of worry he now holds for a version of you heâd never known, a version of you he can barely stomach the idea of. âHow did you meet Bill? Were you with Frank before?â
âGod, youâre bad at this game! Two questions, again!â And, yet, you say it with more humour than chastisement. You turn your face, again, nose bumping against the collar of his jacket. âBut no, I wasnât with Frank. I met them both at the same time, after I spotted them through their fences. I passed out, dehydrated, and I probably wouldnât have been brought in if it werenât for Frank insisting they couldnât just leave me out there to die.â
âYou were alo-â
âAh, my turn!â Your hand shoots out, index finger pointing across the space between you both. âDid your mum ever find out about you and her friend?âÂ
âNo, it ended before that could happen. She got herself a man her own age, and IâŠâ Got someone pregnant. The words stick to his throat, refusing to come out.Â
Reading his closed off pages, like you always do, your voice cuts through the air before he can let himself slip too deep into the sorrow.
âI was alone, when I met Bill and Frank. But I wasnât always.â Those four words are enough to make him ache. But I wasnât always. Who had you lost? How long did they survive? Did you feel their blood on your skin? The questions fly by so quickly, heâs struggling to pin-point which one he wants to ask first, which ones heâs allowed to ask. âHave you ever been in love?â
That quiets his mind. For a moment, itâs a welcomed incident. Then his heartbeat fills his ears, and itâs pounding, skipping over beats of its own rhythm, threatening to spread too much of that fear, too quickly to every vessel under his skin, that Joel has no choice, he has to give you an answer he doesnât want to, just to save himself from the impending tightness in his chest.
âGreen,â the words are a struggle to get out but he manages it, watching the confusions bleed into your soft eyes. âI never answered. Before. When you asked my favourite colour. Itâs green.â If you find his answer to be too late, or youâre disappointed at his clear avoidance towards your latest question, you donât give it away. You just nod, smile softly, and wait for him to take his turn. âWhy were you alone?â
âEveryone changed, got bit, or died. I didnât want to be next.â Perhaps heâs a fool. Perhaps he underestimated the resilience you keep under warm sweaters and easy-going smiles. Because you sit there, not a tear welling in sight, and talk about the things youâve lost like they donât haunt you. Like you havenât spent every waking moment since trying to find them, evidence that they were real, and that theyâd mattered, and that theyâd loved you. Like you havenât drowned in grief, the way he has. Youâve swam, instead, against the current, crawled to the safety of shore. âWhoâs your butterfly?â
The question catches him so off guard, so out of left field, so completely and utterly nonsensical, that he just canât help himself. âMy what now?â
"You know, the whole âif a butterfly flaps its wingsâ,â you trail off, hands curling tighter around yourself after performing air quotes. âWho's one person that changed the trajectory of your life?"
He cannot run.
He cannot repeat his earlier trick, deflecting with the answer to a previously spoken â and visibly ignored â question. Because, no matter which of your two questions he chooses to focus on, the answer remains the same. That little girl, with a smile like sunshine, sitting at the breakfast table, egg yolk on her cheek, ketchup all over her tiny, chubby, little fingers, an incoherent babble of excited squeals as he, once again, drives the choo-choo train â in truth, a fork-ful of food â towards her lips.
Youâve got him backed into a corner, no out, no escape. His mind, a cruel torturer that takes advantage of his own panic, thrusts yet another memory into the VHS of his mind, broadcasting it against the back of his eyelids, forcing him to see the granny pictures every time he blinks. Her first step. Her first day at school. Her first time trying a sip of his beer and absolutely hating it. Her. Her.
Suddenly, heâs angry. The only response he ever seems to conjure at the memory of her.
ââS this what this whole things all about, huh?â Itâs snarky, itâs cruel, and it's punctuated by a scoff. The fact you donât even react, face unchanging beneath the shine of the moon, only seems to make him angrier, outrage for the fact youâre letting him speak to you like this, fury for allowing himself. âYou want me to tell you somethinâ traumatic, somethinâ for you to pity me over? And then what, you gonna give me your own little sob story so we can have ourselves a lilâ pity party? Newshflash, princess, you ainât special just cause your mama died and your daddy never wanted you.â
âAre you done?â You speak only after a silence has permeated the space between you for a few minutes, nothing but Joelâs laboured breaths filling the night air.
Heâs not even sure when he started breathing so heavily. His heart is still working itself into a frenzy, his mind still off the rails. The eire calm that remains over your face seems to bring him momentary respite from the pain, if only to feel himself bracing for a new wave, a worse wave. One born from you. From your pain. And one that Joelâs entirely unprepared, and undeserving, to have wash over him.Â
"I didn't really notice it at first, you know?â You speak so softly, he almost doesnât hear you. But he does, and it hurts. âHell, it wasn't even really me that realised. Bill did. Iâd only been staying with them three nights, just until I got back on my feet. Back then, he used to barricade my door at night, and he wouldnât let me eat at the same table as them both, not even when Frank insisted. But, suddenly, Bill flipped the switch on me. He became apologetic, careful, asking me if I was feeling okay and actually sounding⊠interested in the answer.â
Much like the thought of you in a quarantine zone, the thought of Bill being anything but utterly protective and completely trusting of you does not seem plausible in Joelâs mind, no matter how much he believes you. The image, simply, will not conjure in his mind, too out of shape with the current reality heâs witnessed.
You continue talking after a pause for composure, those eyes that trap him so easily now frozen to the ground, staring at some smudge of mud on your boots.
âFrank was the first one to actually say it out loud, to ask me if I... Anyway, it was hard to tell but we all agreed, eventually, that I had to be around three or four months along. It made sense, timewise. There were some raiders, they found my camp a few weeks before I collapsed outside Billâs gate. I⊠I don't even really know which one of them sealed the deal. All I know is all of them were on me, and none of them cared about how hard I could kick.â
He almost calls you by your name, then by the name heâs given you. Sol. But itâs too pretty a word, too undeserving of being tainted by the anger he feels coursing through his veins, a bloodlust like no other making home for itself in his loins.
âI didn't really care that much about it, as horrible as that makes me sound.â It doesnât make you sound horrible, at all. Joel could show you horrible, if you just gave him a few faces and the permission to do with them, punish them as he pleased. âIt was just a means to an end. A deal to keep myself safe. They'd let me live under their roof, and I'd give them the baby. We never⊠discussed what would happen to me, once I held up my end of the bargain. Never got the chance to, really.â
And suddenly, Joel Miller is the greatest asshole to ever walk the planet.
Not only the greatest asshole, but a hypocrite, too. You ainât special. Well, neither is he, moping around life with a chip on his shoulder and baggage the weight of a dead daughter. He isnât the first parent to outlive a child, to lose a child, and he wonât be the last. Heâll just be another name on the list, another poor soul.
The hoot of an owl. Itâs somehow a reminder that youâre both out, huddled in the privacy of a few trees, waiting for night to pass and the search to continue.
Those tears in your eyes still havenât fallen. My brave girl. But it feels condescending, and wrong. Not because youâre not brave. Because youâre not his girl. Youâre the sun, and heâs just another planet thatâs been sucked into your orbit. Dense, unfeeling, and miles away, forever circling you.
âOne minute, it's just a burden weighing down on my whole body,â your voice is so soft, itâs almost a whisper. Perhaps heâll be the one who cries. It sure feels like it, if he has to continue watching you fidget with your fingers and look anywhere but him. âAnd the next minute, it's screaming torture and the heartbreak of holding her barely-there body in my arms. That guilt... of not even knowing how much I wanted her until I got the chance ripped away, thatâs something that never really goes away. It lingers, it changes you, forever."
God, does it linger.
Heâs tried to lose track. Heâs tried to make himself forget the years that have gone by, all in the hopes of getting through that September day, completely unaware of it. But he canât.
Just like how he canât think of what to say right now.
He knows he should comfort you.
He thinks he should tell you his own story, his own loss. Let you know that the grief you feel is not a lonesome one. But then heâd be worse than a hypocrite. He would be a liar, and thatâs one thing heâs getting tired of being, especially when it comes to you.
âWhat,â he pulls in a deep breath, eyes flickering off you for a moment to watch figures that move in the distance. Tree branches, swaying in the wind. The temperatures are dropping even more, and heâs got no other layers to keep you warm with. âWhat were you gonna name her?â
Youâre gracious enough to utter a name, softly, and finally your eyes flicker up from the ground and meet his own. The tiniest of smiles tugging at the corners of your mouth, the moon casting shadows down your face. You pull in a breath and stutter on its exhale, clearing your throat as if thatâs enough to regain your composure.
âThatâs her name. We buried her out back, under one of Frankâs flowerbeds,â thereâs a sickening kind of envy that coils itself around his chest. Even if it visibly hurts, youâre talking about her, youâre honouring her enough to share something about her existence. Joel canât do the same for his girl, a pain too harrowing, and, once more, he reminds himself that heâs the greatest asshole alive. âItâs silly but⊠I like to think itâs her whenever the snowdrops bloom.âÂ
â'S a nice name," heâs a pathetic excuse of a man, no courage to pull you close and tell you itâs okay. Tell you heâs sorry, for your loss and for his earlier harsh words. Tell you about his own daughter. Would you think heâs trying to outshine you in the pity party, if he told you he doesnât get to see what life blooms from atop his daughterâs grave?
"It was my mom's,â you snort over an unexpected laugh, as if you canât believe youâre admitting this to him. Or maybe itâs not that. Maybe itâs a sense of relief, a lightness coming over a heart previously weighed down by grief. If he could do that for you, even if just slightly, heâd feel as though the tears shining in your eyes are worth it. âShe'd have hated to see me use it, she was never a fan of it, but I couldn't think of a better name for someone I love so much."
Something awful hits him, square in the jaw and deep in the gut.
He canât remember why he called her Sarah.
Youâre sleeping next to him.
Heâs spent the better half of what feels like an hour trying to ignore this fact. Stared at the sky, just to count each freckled star that shines through in the dark. Closed his eyes and tried counting sheep. Rolled over, back facing you, and tried to just fall asleep, once and for all.
But itâs sisyphus. Each time he feels himself about to slip into the discomfort of sleep, you twitch a leg or mumble something incoherent, and heâs back to being far too aware of you, squeezed in beside him in what must be the worldâs least spacious sleeping bag. The worst thing is, it had all been his idea.
Youâd been yawning, eyes slipping shut just to be opened in defiance by your own stubborn self, unwilling to give into the sleep you so visibly needed. Heâd told you to go to sleep, the words coming out soft for once yet, somehow, still a demand. When you nodded in agreement instead of standing your ground, Joel knew you must have been exhausted.
You told him that you hadnât imagined the search would last overnight, that you hadnât grabbed a single thing to sleep with. Not even a blanket. Which was fine, really, because Joel had no intention of closing his eyes. Heâd rolled out his sleeping bag and told you to take it, he didnât mind. It would be one more thing of his that smells like you.
But you wouldnât stop tossing and turning. Restless, cold, and completely distracting to Joel as he tried to will himself to focus on what was important, any approaching threat, and not the shape of you wrapped in his belongings. A fruitless endeavour, that earns him nothing but a string of words rolling off his tongue: âMove over.â
And now heâs here, regretting ever thinking he could possibly lay next to you, exchange body heat, and somehow just will himself to fall asleep.
You squirm, hand fisting at the well-used material of his sleep roll. Laying on his back, he glances over at you. The itch to snake his arm beneath your head, offer a makeshift pillow to spare you from the hard floor, grows harder to ignore the more he looks at you.
Itâs not the only thing that grows harder, however.
Maybe itâs because he can smell you, all over and around him, staining your memory into the fabric of the sleeping bag so he can lament how empty it feels the next time he sleeps it in. Maybe it's because he can feel you, scattered points where the heel of your foot rests against the slope of his ankle, and the swell of your ass presses into his upper thigh, and your back brushes against his arm with every slow breath you take. Maybe it's all more simple than that, like the mere knowledge that youâre actually here, in his presence, after so many months, and Joel Miller is just a man, susceptible to the pleasures of flesh and starved of you.
Whatever the reason is ultimately doesnât matter. Lamenting over it wonât change the stiffness of his cock as it fights beneath denim confines, an uncomfortable throb that demands his attention. And heâs trying so hard to resist, trying so hard to pretend heâs not aware of his own body and the erection itâs bestowed upon him.
But you wonât stop moving, you wonât lay still. Deep in sleep, you taunt him, unawares to the way each soft sigh sends his mind barreling down into the depths of sinful thoughts, and each wriggle, squirm, repositioning of your hips serves no purpose other than to push you closer to him, deeper against the straining fabric.
He flirts with the idea of unbuckling his belt. It would be easy, his hand already resting stiff by his side, itching to shove down layers and feel the weight of his own cock. It barely even makes a sound, a soft clink muffled beneath the blanket, followed by the pop of a button, and the zing of a zipper sliding down. He glances at you, heart rate picking up, and confirms youâre just the same as moments ago: fast asleep.
As much as he wants to peel off his layers completely, he settles for the safer option of pulling down his jeans and briefs enough to free himself, full fist wrapping itself around his base. A swift tug, a tight-jawed hiss. The thrill of it runs right up his spine, a torture that he wants another taste of.
He wants to snake his hand up to his mouth and wet the palm with his spit, but he canât, wonât, the risk of too much movement waking you. So he settles into his fate, a series of uncomfortably dry and unfluid strokes of his cock, nothing but the drops of his own precum to lubricate his movements.
Slow, steady, he runs his palm over his length in sync with your breathing. Your lungs expands, his fingers brush the tip, they deflate and heâs down at the base, trying hard not to brush against his heavy balls. Images of you, the same ones he plays on repeat when heâs working himself to an orgasm in the safety of his and Tessâ apartment, or balls-deep in some faceless stranger, hidden in the darkness of some back alley. Breathless in the kitchen, gripping a knife like your mind grips at its sanity as he bruises his knees from drinking between your thighs. Perched atop his lap, the metal of the truckâs hood creaking with each bounce you give, fuckin yourself further down his length, forcing him deeper and deeper.
His eyes slip shut as he lets the memories take over, replaying for his own viewing pleasure. He tries to match the tightness of his hand to the tightness of your cunt, but his own touch is cold, unfeeling, dry, nothing like the sweetness of you. The version of you that lives in his mind throws her head back lips parted in a cry of pleasure. Joel, she â you â moans, gripping him tighter, pert nipples straining through the thin fabric of a shirt. His shirt. God, you looked so good, so safe in his coat, he shouldâve stripped you down to nothing but it, and taken you there against the dirty woodland floor, on all fours, ass in the air, face in the dirt, Joel all over you.Â
Joel, he can hear it, the way youâd sink down fully to the floor, forcing him to follow you, smother you in his whole weight, hips tilted up enough for him to keep drilling himself deeper, and deeper, and deeper.
âJoel,â he hears you. Real you, turning towards him in the tight squeeze of the sleeping bag. Sleepy eyes meet his own and he sees it, the recognition. You know what heâs doing beneath the surface of the sleeping bag. Before he can fully register this, the touch of another hand â far more delicate â envelopes his own, tightening his grip before he can dare to retreat. âYou should be asleep.â
âCanât,â he grits out, powerless to the sudden movement of your hand, the slow drag in which you guide him to jerk at his cock.
âWhy not?â
âYou know why.â
âI do,â you admit with a soft shrug, eyes glued to his own. âStill, I wanna hear you say it.â
One glance down and he sees the way you touch him beneath the blanket, wishing he could rip it all away and watch your fingers, intertwining with his own, smother over his leaking tip, staining your skin in his pleasure.
Itâs embarrassing how much of a mess heâs becoming, all at the mercy of little old you, and your sparkly eyes, and your sleepy smile, and your guiding hands. Itâs embarrassing how softly the confession parts from his lips.
âBecause of you.â
âMe?â You question immediately, feigned innocence striked across those tired, doe-like eyes he likes so much. âAll Iâve done is try to sleep. Youâre the one who canât keep his hands from wandering. Are you really that weak Joel?â
âYes.â
âDo I make you weak?â
âYes, fuck!â He feels like heâs gone back in time and youâre playing with him, twenty-something questions or whatever the fuck youâd called it. Feeling his balls tighten, an urgency to touch you, feel you, make you feel good takes hold of him. âIâm gonna- Ahh, baby, let me- Let me feel you.â
But you wonât let him. Tightening your hand around his cock, continuing those up and down motions, inching him closer and closer to the orgasm heâs trying so hard to stave off.
âNo, Iâm too tired,â even your little whine is enough to drive him mad, a sigh out your nose as he watches you snuggle into the width of his chest, a throbbing pain taking over his heart. How can you seem so sweet with your fingers sitting tight around his cock? âLet's just lay like this, feel me like this. Let me make you feel good.â
âTell me youâre wet,â it becomes a need, a desperation, born in his heart and spreading all throughout the rest of him, to know youâre enjoying this torture as much as he is. To know youâre not simply touching him as a means to get him off, over and done with, mind silenced to sleep by the haziness of spilling his cum.
âI am,â you soothe his minor fear, and he feels the gentle roll of your hips into his thigh, leg tangled between both of his as you grind your clothed cunt against him. âSo wet. Love touching you, Joel.â
âYeah?â He croons back, voice teetering off into literal begging, his free hand perched on the tip of your chin and tilting your eyes up to meet his. âThen let me fuck you, please.â
âNo, justâŠâ You say, shaking your head, rolling your hips, teasing at the slit in his tip with the tip of your finger. He canât help but hiss, a grunt catching in his throat. âJust wanna focus on you. Wanna see you cum for me, Joel.â
Never have seven words been enough to make his resolve snap.
With a pathetic cry of your name, Joel feels the first rope of cum spray against his knuckles. Sticky, hot, thick, it dribbles down the cracks of his fingers onto your own, making a mess out of both of you. Youâre there, closed palm, sweet lips, soothing him with words of kindness as you carry him through the motions of his orgasm, no doubt working your wrist into a dull ache as you squeeze every last drop of cum out of his weeping tip. He doesnât want to think of the mess that awaits him beneath the sleeping bag, sticky cum staining soft skin, and rough jeans, and nylon material.
What he wants is for you to keep going, stroke him until his cock regains its full stiffness, standing to attention and ready to feel you in the ways heâd pleaded moments earlier, like he felt you months earlier.
Maybe this time heâd try your other hole. Heâs wondered, on lonely nights where nothing but his hand has kept him company, how much convincing it would take until youâd bend over and present him with the pretty little creases of your puckered hole. Youâd protest, he knows. call him disgusting, degenerate, dirty. Shame him for even wishing to touch you in such a vile manner. Joel could handle it. Heâd always had a preference for the chase, the thrill of wearing a pretty thing down off its high horse of holier-than-thou syndrome and onto their knees before him.
Heâd not be kind. No, not when the time comes. Heâd ease himself in, sure, but the true battle would begin once heâs sheathed inside and the tightness of your hole hugs his cock in the warmest of embraces. Heâd push, and pull, and break you down into whatever surface he takes you against. His hands would join in, bringing an electrified pleasure to your neglected cunt while his hips piston into the plumpness of your cheeks. Theyâd move in sync, working to ensure no second passes where youâre not full of some part of him - be it his cock in your ass or his fingers in your cunt.
Exhausted and defiled, your poor body would have nowhere else to run than to the comfort of his embrace and the sweet serenity of peaceful sleep, once heâs through with you. And, should you wake to cry of a newfound pain in your rear, Joel would waste no time in snaking his way down between your legs to mouth at your cum-stained hole, laving his tongue over you and painting your thighs in apologetic kisses until you can no longer speak of pain, his name the only word youâll ever need to know.
But, alas, time is catching up on him and the blood refuses to return to his cock.
Exhaustion wraps you both in its blanketing warmth, melting your head down against his chest with ease, hands still missing somewhere between his thighs. Every soft breath that leaves you hits the skin of his neck, a physical, timely reminder that youâre there, in his arms, closer than youâve ever been.
The thought is frightening, enough to get his heart racing in his chest. He can only assume you hear it, feel it beating against your ear.
âIâm sorry, Joel,â you whisper, just when he feels himself teetering towards the edge of sleep.
âHmm?â He hums back in lieu of a verbal response, eyes heâd not even notice close peering open to look down at you.
âI didnât mean- I wasnât trying to make you angrier with the questions.â Angrier. That word leaves a sour taste in Joelâs mouth. âItâs just⊠Youâre a good man. You care about others. About Tess, and Bill, Frank too. About me. But you have this chip on your shoulder⊠I just wanted to try to understand you better, I wanted to make you feel better.â
With your soft voice echoing in his head, he feels himself sinking into a dreamless sleep, a reply caught on the tip of his tongue.
Something wet wakes Joel.
Itâs a slow return from the land of sleep, the longest that itâs taken him in years to go from peacefully resting to wide-eyed and alert to every surrounding. The first thing he registers is how warm everything feels, how cosy. How much he enjoys the weight of something in his arms, breathing softly into his chest.
Then, that something wet itches at his skin, drags across his cheek. He tries to open his eyes, only to hiss and squeeze them shut, the bright burn of the morning sun nearly blinding him. A few birds sing from the trees above, exchanging their good-mornings with the rest of natureâs critters.
A groan comes from his left, muffled against the flannel of his wrinkled shirt. He readjusts himself, pulling the weight even closer, and finds out he was right: your smell already lingers in his sleeping-bag. A third lick of wet, this one from chin to eyebrow, a cringe overcomes his tired face.
Lick.Â
His eyes snap open, fight against the burning of the light, and there he sees him. Otis, to the right, mouth panting, tongue dangling out his mouth, tail wagging somewhere in the background. Joel tries to move as slowly as possible, fearful of spooking the dog, and even more fearful of spooking you, eyes still shut and hand nestled atop his groin, fingers tangled in coarse hair and poking beneath the layers of his top.
âSunshine,â he whispers, shaking gently at your shoulder, and nearly apologising as you crack an eye open and pin him with a deadly stare. Youâre not much of a morning person, a fact Joel fools himself into thinking heâll need to remember for the future. He gives your shoulder another shake, a gentle squeeze too, for extra measure. âCâmon now, gotta open those eyes properly for me. Got someone here whoâs mighty excited to see you.â
That seems to entice you, eyes peering fully open and giving him a once-over before mumbling a soft, âwhatâre you talking abo- My baby-boy!â
No sooner than youâve shot up straight, arms wide and reaching for the furry creature, Otis has bounded over, trampling over the mess of limbs you and Joel make up beneath the nylon. Pathetic whines fill the air, a tail that moves a hundred miles an hour, as the canine smothers his snout into you, his luscious mane shining beneath the sunâs rays.
Youâre pressing kisses against the dog, tears brimming your eyes as you wrap your arms around his neck and tell him, over and over, âdonât ever do that again! I was so scared!â The happiness is contagious, spreading with a small smile upon Joelâs lips as he peels himself off the floor, chest pressing into your back and hand stretching out over your shoulder, fingers tangling in the threads of Otisâ soft fur.
âMustâa caught scent of you, followed it all the way till it brought him to us,â Joel musses, feeling you laugh as the dog licks a kiss over your cheek. âHeâs a good boy. Arenâtâcha, boy?â
Neither of you mention the sticky dilemma between Joelâs thighs as you pack up. You roll up the sleeping bag while he wipes himself clean with a dirty shirt, quietly passing it your way as he slips off his belt and loops it around Otisâ collar, becoming a makeshift lead to guide the dog home with.
Though, as the four-legged creature sniffs on ahead, with the occasional pull that tests Joelâs grip on the belt, he almost seems to need no guide, leading you all in the direction of home. Your home, not Joelâs. But, what a wonderful thought that would be, if he were just a man, and you were just a woman, and you were both taking an early morning walk around the woods with your dog, catching the first rays of sun, together.
As if hearing his thoughts, Otis turns his head, looking at Joel over his shoulder, tail wagging as he lets out an excited bark. Up ahead, closer than heâd like it to be, stands the borders to Billâs sanctuary. Up ahead, sooner than heâd like it to be, the place where youâll part ways.
He finds himself slowing his pace. You do the same, no question, happy to simply have your fur-friend safe, by your side, the occasional brush of his snout against your upper thigh, searching for the affectionate stroke of your hand.
He needs to speak soon, act now, before itâs too late and the chance slips through his fingers. Joel clears his throat.
âMy, uh,â a lump catches the words as they try to leave him. He swallows it down in a gulp, and tries again. âMy daughter.â
Your face turns so quickly from the trail ahead to Joel, that he swears he hears a snap of something in your neck. Silence settles in like fog, mist on the horizon, a pause pregnant with so many questions he can see running through your pupils. You donât speak them, however, and it strangely eases his nerves, taking away the feeling of demand to reveal his pain, leaving him to peel off the band-aid at his own pace.
âShe was my⊠Whatever you called it, last night.â He sees you nod along, in the corner of his eye. Youâve both slowed to a mere shuffle, unaware of the three figures manifesting ahead, crowding on the other side of the fences. âThe one that changed my life. She was so⊠bright, I used to worry one day sheâd blind someone with her smile.â
In his memories, sheâs always a beacon of light. Shining, even in darkness. Joelâs almost convinced glitter, or starlight must have been weaved into her skin, her eyes, her smile.Â
âShe was everything good about me,â he says, and finds he canât help the small laugh that claws its way up his throat, scratching as it goes. âNone of the bad.â
âCanât imagine thereâs much on that list.â
âI know, âs hard to believe thereâs even one good thing about m-â
âNo, Joel,â he swears he feels his heart still at how you say his name, firm, and with conviction, like youâre trying to drill the sound into his head, remind him that he has a name, has a heart. âThe bad, it must be a short list.â
Three of you â man, woman, dog â find another similar trio waiting by an open gate. Frank, Tess, Bill, each more relieved than the last to see Otis nearly pulling Joelâs feet from under him as the animal surges forward, pulling against the belt-lead with all his might. You release both man and dog from the tug of war, unbuckling the belt from the German Shepherdâs collar and freeing him to pounce on Bill who, despite the frown embedded in his forehead at the dogâs incessant licking, claps a hand over its back.
Joel feels a hand clap down on his own back, snaking its way up to squeeze at his shoulder.
"C'mon, Texas,â Tess proclaims loud enough for all eyes to fall on them. Yours included, kind and questioning, making him wish he could stay. âWe're gonna be in shit if we're not back by sundown."
Bag already on his shoulder, Joel canât feign a reason to linger a little longer.
âWait!â You call out, parting from Frankâs side, fingers scratching at Otisâ head as you pass. Without warning, you throw yourself at Joel, arms wrapping around him and holding him close in the gentlest of embraces. âThank you, Joel.â Itâs just a whisper. Heâs not even sure exactly what youâre thanking him for. Still, he lays a hand against your back and pulls you a little tighter, one last rush of your shampoo hitting his nose before youâre stepping back and parting ways. You, heading back into the safety of Billâs gates, and Joel, walking off towards the desecrated city, back to the cold of his apartment.
When he wakes the next morning, beneath a roof and upon an uncomfortable couch, he feels time reset itself.
One day since he last seen you, who knows how many more days to go.
#joel miller smut#pedro pascal smut#joel miller x reader#pedro pascal x reader#joel miller series#joel miller fanfiction#pedro pascal fanfiction#joel miller fic#pedro pascal fic
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Chapter Thirteen - It is the night to celebrate your dear friend, but the tensions with Jon only grow greater.
Note: This is the same day as the previous chapter
Ch 14
You have never seen a nameday so beautiful, the ones within Kingâs Landing are grand, opulent, but here in Highgarden, they are beautiful. The Great Hall is decorated with flowers, a feast the likes you have never seen set along the walls. The musicians are far more skilled than those in Kingâs Landing, and you find yourself enraptured by the fragrant blossoms surrounding you.
Margaery enters the hall on the arms of Tommen and Loras, Robbâs necklace in place, his ring on her finger, her gown is a thing of beauty, silk, and gossamer fabrics, delicate but vivid embroidery. Her hair is twisted up in an intricate style, her crown set between two strands of hair left down to frame her face, she shines in the dying sunlight, the sky behind her ablaze with pinks, red, oranges, and golds.
She and Tommen start the first dance, with those around them cheering to her health and the health of their marriage.
You have not yet seen Jon, and you are unsure whether you want to or not. He has been distant, holding you at length, avoiding you when he can. In the last few moons, you feel you have spent less time with him than you have the entire time you have known each other, and it isâŠstrange. The distance hurts, he is your closest companion, your friend, your soon-to-be betrothed, your sworn shield, he has been by your side since you were five and ten. But now, now he is virtually a stranger to you. Not fully one, as there are still moments, times, when his eyes soften as he looks at you. When he carries you to your chambers because you drank too much with Margaery, when you learned he slept outside the door to your room when your travel party stopped at inns along the Roseroad.
It is those moments of warmth that worsen your pain. It would be preferable if he were to close himself off completely, act as the Kingsguard does, instead of this back and forth. Then in time, you would be able to bury your feelings deep enough that they would no longer be a sharp, piercing pain but a dull throbbing ache that could be ignored. That would be swept over like the ocean waves sweep over the sand.
Jon claimed his distance was because he was busy. That he was devoting himself further to his swordsmanship, that he needed to act with greater care and propriety in order to not draw suspicion upon you both. Yes, his reasons could be seen as understandable, but no one has ever truly cared. Since you were both young you have acted in a companiable and familiar manner, but now with the way he is acting, people are far more suspicious than they were before. How he does not see this you cannot understand. You know he is not an idiot but, it seems there are still ways of the court he has not learned.
You wrap your arms around yourself, feeling exposed without Jon at your side, perhaps he has grown tired of you? Your silk gown is a petal pink with silver embroidery, that cinches at your waist and dips low to display your dĂ©colletage. It is beautiful, but far more revealing, than you would normally choose to wear. Would Jon like it? He most likely would not even notice it, given how he avoids looking at you.Â
Your hair is loose and styled in waves, and your customary golden bangles have been swapped for ones of silver, a diamond necklace is draped around your neck. Small rubies gleam from their places below the diamonds hanging from strands of silver. It was a gift from your Uncle Robert, given to you on your first Maidenâs Day. The irony is not lost on you that your aunt would choose it for the day on which she is attempting to sell you out like a broodmare. Though you will not deny, it is one of your favorite pieces.
Finally, you spot Jon, and it feels as if someone has draped a warm blanket over you, no longer feeling so alone among the crowd of strangers. He is with your father, which is both strange and not so strange, but what is strange is that Jon wears no armor. Instead, he is dressed in his house colors, in finery you did not know he owned, his hair pulled back, his sword nowhere to be found, and he is wearing rings, well one ring, a signet ring.
âFather, Ser Jon, this is quite a surprise. Have I been tricked, and it is truly my nameday?â You try to jest, taking a step towards Jon, a force of habit you cannot break, reaching to run your fingers down the arm of Jonâs doublet. âYou look so very handsome, my champion, is this new?â
He takes a step back, avoiding your touch, and it is a dagger though your heart. He has never rejected your touch before, truly he must have lost feelings for you, but when, and why? Has another slipped beneath your nose and taken him from you? How would it even be possible?
Your Aunt Cersei was right, there is no point to loving men, they will always disappoint you and when you love them it will only hurt you more.
The hurt must have shown on your face, your father reaches for you, but you shrug him off, avoiding both their eyes.
Fine, if Jon wishes to be distant, then so shall you. âThe Dowager Queen has a list of suitors she would like me to dance with tonight, I am afraid I will not be able to spare a dance for either of you.â
âA pity, but I understand, do have fun, little lion.â Your father says, giving your hand a pat before heading off towards the nearest feast table.
Jon remains in place, unable to meet your gaze. His boots are shiny, his strong shoulders, muscled arms, and broad chest displayed by the gray cloth that encompasses them. He is so very handsome, a marble statue, a god, an ancient warrior, a conqueror who takes what he desires.
Y/N now is not the time, you are angry with him, and he does not care for you. You internally chastise yourself, donning a mask of indifference.
âWell, are you going to return the compliment, or are you too busy to even speak to me?â You fully fail to sound unaffected by his actions.
âYou look very nice, My Lady.â He says, in that same stilted tone that makes you want to scream.
You take a step closer, glaring up at him, unable to stop yourself. âWhy are you speaking to me in this way, it is me, y/n, not some stranger.â
He sighs, and takes a step back from you, that same uninterested, stiff tone, drilling into your mind, past your walls of civility, hitting deep, triggering the tripwire of your insecurities and anxieties disguised as rage. âMy Lady, it is not properââ
âShut up, shut up, I do not wish to hear from you until you stop acting like this.â You snap, anger boiling over in your chest. âGet out of my sight, Lord Snow.â
You turn away from him, blinking back angry tears, and search the hall for your aunt.
You have danced with an Algood, a Tarbeck, a Swyft, a Crakehall, a Blackmont, an Arryn, and Tommen to give yourself a break from the suitors. As well as a Hightower which your aunt quickly ushered you away from telling you he was a fourth son who had slid his way in, and not on her list. Now you dance with a Bracken.
Lord Hendry Bracken, who will be heir to House Bracken if his uncle does not have a son before he dies. He has light brown hair, ale-colored eyes, and a sweet smile. He is not necessarily charming, or overly handsome, but he seems kind and does not talk over you as the Blackmont man did.
âAnd then my cousin Bess chased me around the halls with a frog in her hand until her father caught us.â He says, laughing as he tells a story of his time growing up alongside his five female cousins.
You laugh as well, imagining a little Hendry running from a frog carried by his cousin, who was no more than a year older than him. âThat is terrible, you poor thing.â
He shakes his head. âNo, no, do not pity young me, after my uncle forced her to put the frog back outside, I ended up venturing into the gardens to ensure it had returned to its pond safe and sound.â
Your heart warms at his words. âThat was quite sweet of you.â
He blushes and shrugs. âI have always felt compassion for those smaller and less able to defend themselves, especially when it comes to animals, they have no voices to speak with, so we must speak on their behalf.â
His sentiment makes you think of Ghost, of the way he and Jon communicate wordlessly.
âIt is an admirable trait.â You say, giving him a radiant smile. You could not see yourself falling in love with Lord Hendry, but his kind words and humorous stories have lightened your heart, if only for tonight.
The song comes to an end, and you find yourself reluctant to leave him in favor of a new suitor.
âPerhaps we might exit the floor and refresh ourselves? Have you tried the wine in the golden glasses? The wine within is from a vineyard named for Queen Margaery, and it is perhaps the sweetest, most refreshing wine I have ever had the pleasure of tasting.â Hendry suggests, offering you his arm.
You take it with a grateful smile. âI have not, though the queen was telling me all about that very vineyard on our journey here.â
Hendry leads you over to the table and hands you a glass, you take a sip, about to speak when a flash of yellow and white catches your attention.
Jayne Westerling. You truly have no reason to dislike the girl; she is quiet, shy. Your Uncle Jaime described her as not a beauty worth losing a kingdom for, which you will admit you laughed at. But there is simply something about her that irks you. Something that sets you on edge, as if her sweetness is a farce covering a far more devious countenance.
You track her movements, your glass still at your lips, your grip on it tightening when you see her stop in front of Jon, your Jon, with two wine glasses in her hands. They have been talking, dancing, and spending time together. Is it her? Has she somehow stolen your champion?
âLady Lannister, are you quite alright?â Hendry asks.
Jayne smiles, laughs, throws her hair over her shoulder flirtatiously, and you drain your glass then slam it down onto the table. âYou must excuse me, My Lord, I have something I need to take care of.â
It is simple, find Margaery, have her direct you to her cousin who would anger Jon the most, and dance with him, as close to Jon and Jayne as possible.
The Tyrell man whose name you do not know, and do not care to learn, attempts to talk to you, but you are intent on listening to Jon and Jayneâs conversation.
There is more giggling, more flirting, and when you hear Jon compliment Jayneâs dress, telling her she looks like a flower maiden in summer, you turn to your dance partner.
âDo tell me about yourself, good sir, I am quite interested.â Your voice is not overly loud, but loud enough for Jon to hear, and it is dipped in honey, heated by the flames of desire, as near as you can fake them at least.
The Tyrell begins to blather on, and you laugh in all the right places, leaning in close, and letting him spin you in a way that nearly bumps you into Jayne.
When the song ends, you go up on your toes and whisper your thanks in his ear, letting your hands linger on his chest. You step back and giggle as you curtsy, agreeing to a second dance with him when Jon catches your wrist.
âMy Lady, you are needed.â He says, his eyes steely as he leads you out of the Great Hall and down a side hallway.
The hallway is darker than the Great Hall, and it takes your eyes a moment to adjust. âIs it my father?â You ask, looking around, there is no one in sight.
âIt is clear you cared not for the blathering on of that foul man, and yet you agreed to a second dance. Tell me, what game is it that you are playing, My Lady?â Jon demands, his eyes blazing, his hand still holding your wrist as he comes to a stop.
âHow would you know if I cared or cared not for his words? Perhaps in the few moons you have been ignoring me, I have changed my interests.â You counter, fixing Jon with your own withering stare.
He laughs humorlessly. âYou do not change interests, not so much that you find talks of hunting and tanning to suddenly be enrapturing.â
âI do find a good hunting tale to be interestiâdid I not tell you to leave my sight?â You say, cutting yourself off before Jon can drag you off course.
He takes a step towards you, looming over you, his lips set in a hard line. âYou did, but you did not say I could not return to it.â
âSemantics.â You wave your hand dismissively. âI do not want to see you, and I do not appreciate being pulled away on a lie.â
Another step. âIt was not a lie.â
âWho needs me then? Surely it is not you, the honorable Lord Jon Snow.â You snark, crossing your arms over your chest.
He does not answer, simply watches you, drinks your torchlit form in.
âIf you have nothing to say, then I shall return to Lord Tyrell, he had much to say to me.â
Suddenly your back is pressed against the wall, the stone cool against your heated skin, Jonâs strong arms encaging you, his head dipping low, his voice even lower, his dark hair still tied back and his eyes nearly black in the shadows of the hall. âYou cannot keep on this way.â
You look up at him, still breathless from the dance and your argument. âWhat do you mean?â
His eyes flit down to your rising and falling breasts, soft skin exposed by the low-cut gowns your aunt had made for you, gowns meant to tempt your potential suitors, the ones you wished would tempt him. âYou know what you are doing, y/n.â
âI do not, so unless you are going to tell me, I would ask you to release me.â You say imperiously, though you hope he does not release you. It feels as if it has been ages since you had his attention fully on you, since he dared to stand so close.
âThe laughing, the flirting, the smiles and fluttering of eyelashes, the pouts? You are driving every man in the room mad with desire.â He says, his accent thickening, the rough brocade making your stomach flip, your heart nearly beating out of your chest.
âI am simply enjoying the party; I cannot control if men look at me, if they wish to dance with me. Would you have me say no? Answer every lord and knight who asks for a dance with an icy glare and utter contempt?â
âYes. Yes, I would.â Jon growls, his breath warm against the shell of your ear, his hands curling into fists on the wall above you, his chest heaving with the act of self-restraint. âI would have you tell them to sod off, that your hand is spoken for.â
âBut I cannot, there has been no formal betrothal, and it would be rude.â You tell him, lifting your chin in defiance. He has been hot and cold with you, and you are sick of it, you need to hear him say it, hear him admit he still wants you.
âOthers take them and any sense of rudeness, you are mine.â He snarls, gripping the back of your neck, his fingers spreading out into your hair, his touch is not harsh, but firm, for Jon is never rough with you.
Goosebumps adorn your skin, liquid heat filling your veins. It feels good to hear him say it, to see him so possessive, see him feel the way you have felt watching that Westerling girl fall all over him. âAm I? Because it seemed that perhaps Lady Jayne had taken my place.â
Jon laughs, the sound harsh. âThe Westerling? You have thrown a fit because of some girl I met only tonight?â
âI am not throwing a fit, I am acting as an unmarried lady must, to secure a match.â You argue, throwing the unmarried part in his face.
He shakes his head, before dipping it lower, trailing his lips along the curve of your neck nipping at the skin as he goes. âIf you wish to be a married lady so badly, my lioness, I will take you to the Godswood right now and throw my cloak over you. Would that suit you? Would that cease these unneeded flirtations?â
You draw a quick intake of breath, eyes fluttering shut as Jon kisses the crook of your neck, using the hand in your hair to guide your head, exposing more sensitive skin to his touch.
âWould my starlight like that? To finally be Lady Dayne, the pretty lioness with her husband who trails after her, devoted, desperate, a lovesick wolf pup who wants only to make his lovely wife happy?â
This, this is what you have needed to hear.
âYes, please, Jon, I want to be your wife.â You say, your hands pressed to his chest, desperate to feel his heart beating beneath his doublet.
âI want you to be my wife as well, more than you will ever know y/n, but we must wait.â Jon says softly, and your eyes fly open, the illusion shattered.
You shove at his chest angrily; he predictably does not move, but you do it again anyways. âGods take me, I cannot wait any longer. I cannot stand pretending I am interested in others. I cannot stand their lewd words, their stares, and I cannot pretend that I am unfazed by the stares you get, the whispers I hear, the maids and ladies that do not shy away from lusting after you.â
âI know, I know, butââ The sound of footsteps makes him jerk away from you, and you turn away from the sound, arms folded across your chest.
âOh Lady Lannister, Ser Jon, I had wondered where you two had run off too.â Jayneâs voice is cloyingly sweet, and it infuriates you.
You turn towards her with a placid smile. âApologies, Lady Westerling, I seem to have eaten something that does not agree with me, and Ser Jon was helping me to my chambers.â
Jayne makes a sound of sympathy. âWas it the shellfish? I find they are often the culprit.â
âMy Lady does not enjoy sheââ
âYes, it was.â You take a step away from Jon. âSer Jon, will you escort Lady Westerling back to the party? I will return to my chambers on my own.â
Jon moves to argue, but your expression is unyielding, and you storm off in the direction of your chambers, wiping away angry tears as you go.
You know it is not fair to blame Jon, he is trapped as you are, but you are still angry. Gods, your father was right. It would be easier if he was a Targaryen, then he could steal you away on a dragon. No one would argue, no one would be able to cite him as not a good enough match for you, they would have to accept the marriage or face dragonflame.
The sound of hurried footsteps nearly makes you turn, but you have no desire to see who is coming down the hall, especially not as tears continue to slide down your face.
âLady y/n, please, wait.â Jon calls.
âWhat, whatever could you want?â You snap, continuing to walk forward, vision slightly blurred, tears dripping onto your dress.
He catches up to you easily, pulling you into a shadowy alcove. âI simply wish to talk, to understand what has made you so angry.â
You fix him with a stunned look, blinking away your tears. âHow can you not know? I have stated it quite clearly.â
âI understand you are upset that we cannot yet marry, but the plan y/n.â
A sob rips from your throat, and you shake your head. âIt is more than that and you know it.â
Jon cups your face, his own a portrait of guilt-ridden agony. âPlease, please, do not cry, my starlight, I cannot bear to see you cry.â
âDo not tell me what to do.â Your words sound much less sharp than you wished them to.
He wipes your tears away with his calloused thumbs catching them as quick as they fall. âI am sorry, y/n I am so, so sorry, I never should have danced with Lady Westerling.â
You pull away from him with an angry sob, continuing your blind storm down the hall. âI do not care about Lady Jayne.â
Jon beats you to your chambers, opening the door for you, giving you no choice but to enter or keep walking down the hall.
You enter, keeping your back to him as you throw open the balcony doors, lungs burning for fresh air. You are suffocating under the weight of this night, of this unknown plan, of the hurt you feel knowing you can not go a single day without speaking to Jon, without being near him. Yet, he seems to be able to survive moons without you.
âThen what do you care about, because I am lost, y/n.â He says, and you can feel his presence behind you, still in the doorway, close but not close enough, just as he has been since he spoke with your uncle.
âYou! I care about you, Jon, as I always have.â You tell him, turning to face him, throwing your arms in the air helplessly, tears streaming down your face.
âThen why did you cast me from your sight?â He wears that hurt puppy dog look that never fails to melt you, but your anger keeps you frozen.
How can he not know? How can he not see the pain he has caused you? Jon is not a fool, he is not blind, and truly there is no one who can read you better than him and yet it is as if you have suddenly been written in another language.
âYou have been so cold, so distant, these past few moons. Then you storm up to me tonight and act as if I am doing something wrong. As if I am hurting you, when it is you who has been hurting me.â You tell him, your hands balled into fists at your side to hide their shaking. âEven now you stand so far from me, and I know you say you are training, that you wish to protect our reputations, but I cannot go on like this.â
Jon says your name softly.
âNo, Jon, I cannot hear another excuse. I know my uncle said something to you, but is he truly the man to take advice from? Seven knows I love him, butâŠâ You wrap your arms around yourself, wiping your tears with your sleeves, uncaring if they are stained with cosmetics. âIf there is someone else, if I have lost your affections, you must tell me because I cannot understand what else would cause you to hurt me in this way.â
âThere is no one else.â He says fervently, desperately. âY/N I swear it to you, there is no one else.â
You cannot look at him, casting your eyes towards the moon. âI love you Jon, but I cannot bear this distance any longer, you must make a choice.â
âA choice?â He rasps, the sound so quiet it is nearly drowned out by the wind.
The words taste bitter on your tongue, but they must be said. âTo end this strange game, you are playing and return to being the man I have known for the last four years or continue to play it, and I will ask my father to release you from my service and allow you to return home to Winterfell.â
Your words linger in the night air, the space between you and him not even the length of two grown men, yet it feels like an ever-widening chasm.
âYou would release me from your service?â
You wipe away a stray tear, throat tight with grief. âIf it is what you desire.â
âYou would send me away?â His voice is strained, and you chance a look at him.
He is beautiful in the moonlight, a tragic beauty, as to look upon him pains you. His dark eyes cannot settle on one part of your face, as if this is the last time they will ever see it. The thought tears at the flimsy hold you have on your composure, and you press your hand to your aching chest.
âI do not want to.â You sob, curling your fingers around your necklace, desperate for something to hold onto. âBut I cannot play your game, I am drowning without you, and if you wish to leave, if it will make you happyââ
Jon crosses the balcony in two large strides, and pulls you into his embrace, crushing you to his chest. âI love you, gods, y/n I am so sorry, I love you, I love you, I love you. I do not wish to leave, do not send me from your side, it would not make me happy, you make me happy.â
âThen why, why have you kept your distance from me? There have been so many things I wished to tell you, so many times I wished to reach out, but you turned from me.â
Jon rests his forehead against your own. âYour uncle, he spoke of his grief, how he did not wish me to further entangle myself with you as it would only cause us both pain.â
âWhy would you listen to him?â
âBecause I was afraid, and I feltâŠguilty. If he had seen it, then others would. I thought that if I kept my distance until we were formally betrothed, I could spare you further harm.â He sighs and rubs his hands up and down your arms soothingly. âClearly I was mistaken.â
âClearly.â
He squeezes your arms playfully. âIt harmed me too; do you think it was not torture? That I did not miss you? That I did not curse myself for turning from you, that I did not drive myself mad trying to stay away from you?â
âSeems well deserved.â You pout, wrinkling your nose, even though you know you are being slightly petulant.
âAye, it was.â
You bask in his warmth, listening to the sound of his breathing, clinging to him like a drifter at sea. âIs that the only thing you have been keeping from me?â
âThere is more, I cannot tell you until the morn, but I will give you something to tide you over.â Jon says, wiping away the remainder of your tears with his calloused thumbs.
âMore waiting, how wonderful.â You deadpan.
His voice drops to a whisper, a smile tugging at his lips. âMy father is alive.â
You jerk back, shocked then delighted, soon Jon will be claimed, you truly will be able to marry soon. âTruly? Oh, Jon, that is wonderful news.â
Jon pulls you back, tilting your head gently and ghosting his lips over yours. âIt is. Though I would rather speak of him in the morn, for I found myself missing your touch greatly these past few moons and have not yet gotten my fill.â
With a giggle, you melt against him, looping your arms around his neck, letting him tilt your chin up so that your lips meet. It is like returning home, laying down in a familiar bed, the stress of the day falling away. He smells different, a hint of spice, and you taste no hint of wine on his tongue.
âDid you not drink tonight?â You ask against his lips, your heart pounding as it always does for him.
âI could not risk finding my way to your chambers, bolstered by wine again. Not when it had been so long since I have held you in my arms. I feared I would fall upon you like a savage beast.â He breathes, his hands gliding down your body, the silk so thin you can feel the warmth of his hands through it.
âI would not mind that.â You admit, running your fingernails lightly down the nape of his neck, relishing the shiver it brought forth, a soft groan slipping from his lips.
âDo not tease me, I beg of you.â He pleads even as he pulls you closer, his nose trailing down the curve of your face.
âI should, you paid me such a horrid compliment in the Great Hall, it would only be fair.â You say, an indigent whine slipping past your whispered tones.
âI do apologize. I wished to say how beautiful you looked, how you shined, how if you were a goddess I would fall to my knees and worship you endlessly.â He says, tracing the curves of your body with his fingertips.
You let out a shuttering breath, eyes closed, as you allow Jonâs words and touch to wash over you, to ease your emotions as they always did.
âIs that better, my starlight? Am I forgiven for such a grievous blunder?â He teases, nipping at your bottom lip.
âIf you do that trick with your tongue, you shall be.â You say breathlessly, as the tip of his tongue darts out to soothe the sting.
âAs you wish.â He says, recapturing your lips wholly, his tongue meeting your own in a familiar dance.
A wolf whistle followed by drunken cheering has you both dropping to the floor, chests heaving, and hands pressed over your mouths to keep from laughing.
âPerhaps we should move this inside?â
TL: @mostclevermiss, @solacestyles, @2valentines, @sharknutz, @idohknow, @bdudette, @pluraldoggo, @legolastheleafyelf, @faerie-film
#meg's writing#jon snow#jon snow x y/n#jon snow x reader#jon snow x you#lannister!reader#I've been waiting to drop this one#jon snow imagine#jon snow imagines
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could i get some soft gromsko hcs đ„ș sorry i keep seeing ones where hes a misogynist (untagged so it triggers me from a past relationship) and i much prefer your interpretation where he's caring but still confident
Aww đ«đ«đ« I'm sorry Anon, I'm actually in the same boat as you, my bad relationship ended exactly a year ago so yeah.
Everyone's allowed to have their own interpretation and all that fun stuff but I absolutely agree, I can't see him like that. Talking to my Polish friends about it, it's just not his generation and it's a very tired trope of "misogynistic, loud slavic man" they are not too happy seeing. For me, it's almost a bit of an American trope that is "loud and boisterous=asshole", which I dislike as he has multiple lines IN GAME that shows him as caring and you know... nice (ex. Czasami trzeba siÄ poĆwiÄciÄ dla innych (sometimes you must sacrifice yourself for others), You're not dying yet!, TrzymaÄ siÄ (hold on) the surgeon is coming, I was proud to fight with you!, I am your wingman, etc). Not to mention you know... HE'S A MEDIC or at the very least "extensive medical training" as stated in his bio.
So yeah, I'll happily give you some nice, loud and proudly in love Gromsko headcanons, Anonđ
Tags: fem!reader, pure tooth rotting fluff, alcohol mention for the last point
Gromsko always has his arm around you in public. He wants the world to know how lucky he is to have you. He still has some slight guilt in his head about showing PDA from getting glares from various babcias back home, but he can't help it when he sees you, beautiful eyes looking back at him with such adoration. He has to show it back somehow.
Often, he'll just settle for hand holding (before marriage? Scandalous) as you guys walk around. He'll watch you as you interact with employees, you asking for help as his thumb runs over your knuckles, running along the back of your hand. Even if you get nervous talking to employees, his touch reminds you he's right there if you need him, and that he's more than willing to help if needed.
You getting disrespected sets him off in a whole new way. Instantly, he'll step in front, asserting his height advantage he often has, looking down at them with contempt that they would even dare speak to you like that. "Want to repeat that?" His voice coming out as low and threatening, booming around the room. When they inevitably leave you both alone, his attention goes right back to you, gently cupping your face as you look up to him as he asks if you're okay. You smile and nod, telling him a soft thank you. You can practically see his heart melt as he looks back, eyes softening and a gentle smile on his face, taking your hand and continuing like nothing happened.
Though he learned some cooking from his grandma, he has fond memories of watching Robert MakĆowicz with his mom during weekends, making the recipes for dinner. When he found out MakĆowicz has a YouTube channel, the two of you went on a deep dive for hours, cuddling on the couch and him translating for you when he started laughing or just said something nice, and thought it'd be nice to share. He also showed a few older clips, particularly this one of him and a dog and now the two of you have the little inside joke going "EHEHEHEHE" at small, cute things.
He often cooks for you, even wanting to take care of you like that as well. He doesn't mind the help but he takes quite a bit of pride in his cooking. He loves when you come up behind and just hug him while he's at the stove. For him, that plus you smiling as you eat a meal from him is the greatest reward.
Every injury is an emergency to him, often taking huge precautions even for little things. The house is never out of band-aids or antibiotic ointment. Even stubbing your toe will have him running out of whatever room he's in, stopping what he's doing to make sure you're okay.
He is the best to have around during the time of the month. He'll make some good iron rich foods, but still get you whatever snacks you want. He may want to take care of you physically but he knows part of health is mental too, and that he can't force something on you when you are craving something else. He makes sure heating pads are ready along with a nice comfortable spot in bed. He isn't overbearing though, as he knows sometimes you just need space. He knows that when you need him, you'll let him know. Often you have fallen asleep, head in his lap with a heated stuffed animal hugged to your chest. He'll carry you to the much more comfortable bed with ease, watching you at peace with a smile on his own face as he'd go back, cleaning up any snack wrappers in the living room, turning off any electric heating pads that might have been left on. He may join you for a nap eventually, but he'll leave you at peace for now.
Being used to waking up for the military, he wakes up before you, and he really doesn't mind. The warm glow of the sun rising as your lips are parted, gently breathing. His arm around you, he can feel the gentle rise and fall, your heart beat calm against him. He could look at you like this for hours, going back in forth in his head questioning how he got so lucky but also not wanting to question it, instead to just enjoy this quiet morning. Birds chirping, he wants to get up and make some coffee for you but he doesn't want to leave you in this moment... not now or ever.
He loves animals... all of them. Often, if he sees a random animal in the street, he'll call out to it instinctively in Polish, often leaving a poor hedgehog stunned in the streets, unsure what to do about this giant heading towards them. He loves going to the shelter with you, seeing big dogs go from barking to wagging their tail, wanting to get out to play, and going to cat rooms to sit for a while, playing with all the cats, young and old. Old cats flock to him like no other and he always imitates their crispy meows. Seeing him hold a kitten that easy fits in his hands, curling up into a ball as he holds it against his broad chest, gently petting its head with two of his fingers... it warms your soul.
He is a very affectionate drunk. He'll be stumbling down the streets, goofy grin on his face as he hugged on you for balance. If any even breathes in your direction, positive or negative, he'll be calling out to them, "HEJ! To moja dziewczyna... GO!" (Hey, that's my girlfriend) You often end up apologizing to whoever it is, his slurred speech being the answer for why. When you get home he'll often just keep repeating how beautiful you are while snuggled in your chest for once. Looking up at you, you see that look of disbelief in his eyes, but quickly returning to just bliss as he remembers you belong to each other. Snoring like a bear buried deep, he knows absolute comfort knowing you'll be there for each other for the inevitable hangover the next morning.
#call of duty#call of duty modern warfare#cod mw2#gromsko#gromsko mw2#ask peach#gromsko x reader#sobiesĆaw koĆciuszko x reader#sobiesĆaw koĆciuszko#call of duty x reader#mw2 x reader#cod x reader#grom writing
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Hello! Fellow Frankenstein freak here! I have to ask, what's your favorite Frankenstein movie you've seen? Not necessarily the best one, but your favorite one. I made myself watch about 25 last year for reasons (that's as many as I could watch in one week for free, dating from 1910 to the early 2000s) and they're all so bizarre. I love talking about them so much, I love watching peoples faces when I tell them that one time Sting played Frankenstein, and in that same movie The Creature and his buddy are targeted by the Circus Mafia. Or how at least one version of Victor Frankenstein has an alligator pit. Or how Kenneth Branagh made Robert De Niro be birthed out of instapot and then they spend like 30 seconds slipping in Mysterious Science Goop before the plot continues.
TLDR; I don't know anyone else who is as obsessed with this stuff as I am and would love to hear your thoughts lmao
damn, my biggest problem is that I've watched so many of them few years ago, that I mostly don't remember anything :")
but I definitely have some that I still think about constantly!! maybe the first one and the most special in my eyes is "Frankenstein: The True Story" (1973), because in this movie Victor REALLY cared about the Creature and TOOK THE RESPONSIBILITY. he taught him things, he spent time with him â and when the Creature started to decay and lose temper, yeah, he decided to lock him, but Victor was going to lock himself as well so the Creature wouldn't be dying alone. and they even had a hug!! (still everything ended up terribly, but it was interesting to see this responsible version of Victor, not canonical book version, but also not usual movie mad scientist either).
well, speaking of classics and mad scientists â I love first two movies of UNIVERSAL's franchise, rewatch them from time to time. And within the Hammer's franchise I like the third (if I remember right) movie â "The Evil of Frankenstein", even though it mostly is called the worst of them all lmao. I just think it was funny and not annoying like the other. and I also LOVE the first several minutes of the first movie â "The Curse of Frankenstein" with the young Victor played by Melvyn Hayes, because OH HE WAS DEFINITELY SERVING. for me this young Victor was the closest to the book from all of the versions of him.
(I even did a funny edit of him once, here, lmao)
the most controversial version but I can't NOT TO THINK ABOUT IT â it's "Flesh for Frankenstein" of course (not even speaking about the plot, but god how I hate color correction in most of the 70's movies, these colors usually make me sick almost physically).
but well, uh, how the hell I was surprised when Udo Kier's Frankenstein turned out to look SO DAMN CLOSE to like I always draw him (I mean just give him another nose shape and he will look exactly how I imagine Victor) :") just hello??? DAMN
also want to mention "Terror of Frankenstein" (1977) movie, because they have an interesting design of the Creature here (finally black lips yaaay!) and sweet sweet Clerval (I hate that most of the movies are throwing him and Justine out of the plot :(( )
AND ALSO!! not movies, but I LOVE LOVE LOVE these adaptations â Frankenstein: the Metal Opera, 2014 (you can find its official record for free on youtube) and Frankenstein, the Royal Ballet, 2017!! I, personally, enjoyed them both very much
well, these ones are some of the movies I think the most about, I guess :")
really thank you for your question!!
#oh it turned out to be kinda long#I have no idea when to shut up đ
#but hope it was somehow interesting!!#victor frankenstein#frankestein#my ask
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Now That We Don't Talk (byler): 2
word count: 15,023
warnings for this chapter: homophobia, parental disownment, very graphic imagery presented in a nightmare (car crash, blood and dying), underage drinking, sexual content, assault/rape. this is semi-autobiographical so pls be kind <3
in short, if you are emotionally or mentally vulnerable, pls dni.
âUh⊠hey. Iâmâ Iâm Will. Byers,â I stuttered out, shoving my hands in the pockets of my khaki pants. Matt blinked back at me for a second, as if he were processing what I was saying over the deafening music. Should I have been a little bit louder?
âHâfuck,â Matt swore, plucking a pair of plastic fangs from his mouth and tossing them somewhere behind him. He cleared his throat and shook his head, his eyes shut tightly. Had I met my awkward match? âIâm so sorry, let me start again,â he smiled, extending a hand out to me. âHi. Matt Winters, nice to meet you.â
I took his hand, hesitantly shaking it. Of course he had the same initials as Mike. Of fucking course, out of all the people at this party that my friends couldâve introduced me to, heâ
âSorry, Iâm not sure how to do this,â Matt confessed, looking a bit flustered. âI, um⊠I wasnât really expecting to be, you know, set up with anyone tonight. If you arenât able to tell, Iâm pretty nervous, because youâre really cute, and Iâm afraid Iâm fucking this all upââ
âNo no no, youâre fine! Weâre on the same page,â I told him, placing a hand on his shoulder in reassurance. âIâm personally kind of terrible at starting conversations, so⊠youâre good, I promise. And, um, youâre pretty cute yourself.â And he was. He was lean, and stood at around six feet tall, at my best estimate. He had dark eyes, full lips, an adorable nose, a light stubble across his jaw, and beautiful olive undertones in his skin.Â
âThank you,â Matt said as he shifted back and forth on his feet a few times. He was probably struggling with how to progress the conversation, just like I was. I felt unsure as to if this shouldâve been considered a blessing or a curse, because yes, we understood each other, but on the other hand, coming up with new subjects was neither of our strong suits.
âSo,â I said with the most serious expression on my face that I could muster, âCome here often?â Matt laughed at that, and the sound of his laughter alone set a thousand butterflies free in my stomach.
He then leaned into my space to respond to my question: âIâm not much of a party person, so, not really. My best friend, Riley, is dating your DM, and they apparently arranged this⊠thing⊠a few days ago.âÂ
âWhat âthingâ?â I asked, and cocked an eyebrow.
âWhere you and I⊠you know,â he replied with a light shrug.
I shook my head. âI donât, actually.â
âUmâŠâ Matt trailed off, and I quickly glanced over his shoulder to see Ivy making out with Hannah against a wall across the room before focusing back on Matt. She clearly wasnât available to potentially come to my rescue if things went south. I really hoped that âyou knowâ wasnât code for âhave sex.â It wasnât that I was afraid to have sex per se, or that I didnât want to; it was just that I wasnât into the whole idea of one night stands or hookups. If I was going to have sex, Iâd want to be in a committed relationship with the guy I was with.
Before either of us could figure out how to salvage this uncomfortable dialogue, a very familiar bass and drum introduction blared out of the PA system stationed in the corner of the living room.
âOh, thank God, saved by The Cure. I fucking love this song,â Matt sighed loudly in relief at âJust Like Heavenââs high pitched, organ-esque synth lead. Any doubts or reservations I was having about this man were melting away by the second.
âReally? Same here!â I exclaimed, and Matt nodded.
âYeah, theyâre one of my favorite bands. I saw them live last year, and I was never the same.â He raised a hand to scratch the back of his neck, and I gawked with wide eyes.
âI will forever be jealous of you. Robert Smithâs lyricism is unmatched.â
âYouâre so right,â Matt nodded along to the beat, reaching out to hold my hand in his. âAnd who knows? Maybe we can go to one of their shows someday.â Was this even real? What did I do to deserve this? Did I deserve this? Iâd have to stick around to find out.
âSomeday. Maybe,â I found myself replying, holding onto Mattâs hand a little tighter. Weâd figure out the whole intimacy situation later. In the meantimeâ
âWanna⊠dance? Letâs dance,â Matt said, pulling me by our connected hands into the middle of the crowd of people before I could manage to protest. And claustrophobia be damned, I didnât feel like I was going to implode. Not when Mattâs hands gripped my waist. Not when my hands slowly moved from his chest, up and around his neck. Not when we swayed back and forth in a slow dance to an upbeat song. Not when our eyes met, and Mattâs nearly black irises got impossibly darker, but in the most comforting way possible. Not when Robert Smith ended his phrase, âIâll run away with you,â the guitar top line began again, and one of Mattâs hands gently caressed the side of my face before pulling me into a soft kiss.
I couldnât believe this was happening. I was kind of worried about it being so soon after meeting him, but⊠I didnât hate it. Not at all. I didnât hate it so much that I pulled him in even closer, swiping the tip of my tongue against the seam of his lips, deepening the kiss. He let me in immediately, and suddenly our tongues were sliding against each other, and oh my God, this was my first time making out with someone, wasnât it? Was my kissing okay? Was I doing this right? Was Iâ
And then I felt Matt moan against my mouth, and his grip on my hips tighten, and I knew I had a generally good idea. He ran his hands up my torso and through my hair and it was like I forgot how to breathe. "Just Like Heaven" was still playing, but I could barely hear the lyrics anymore; just mine and Mattâs simultaneous inhales and exhales, the obscene sound our lips were likely making, and our friendsâ unanimous screeching in the distance. Theyâd been watching us, the little shits. They definitely succeeded in their mission, Iâd give them that. We pulled away from one another, but not too far, as he leaned his forehead against mine, his thumb brushing my cheekbone.
âIâm not into one night stands or hookups,â I blurted out immediately. I felt heat rise to my face at my brashness. Was I sabotaging my only chance at happiness? I had probably already ruined what we had with my sky-high expectations. But before I could backtrack, Matt merely pecked my lips again with a chuckle.
âThatâs perfect. Because neither am I.â
I stared up at him in awe, brushing some hair away from his eyes. âAre you real?â
âWho even is real, nowadays? Weâre all just figments of the material plane, if you think about it,â Matt replied, and I couldnât think of anything else to say, so I rose up onto my tiptoes and kissed him this time. He melted into it instantly, and I felt like I was going to die of pure joy.
âWanna go somewhere thatâs not your place or mine?â he asked once I pulled away. I searched his face for an impending âjust kidding,â or a âno homo, bro,â but found nothing of the sort. This was real. Matt Winters liked me, no mind fuckery included.
âYeah, letâs go,â I said. Matt only grinned as he took my hand in his once again, leading me out of the crowd and out into the crisp October night, laughing the whole way to his car.
âSo,â Matt said, leaning his forearms on the surface of the tabletop that separated us. âWill Byers. Tell me ten things about you, go.â
Weâd driven around for a few hours, listening to music and ranking our top twenty favorite bands, and it turned out that we had a lot in common. We eventually got hungry and ventured into a twenty-four hour diner. It was about twenty minutes away from campus; a very run-down place with dim lighting and 70s wood paneling, but Matt swore the food there was to die for, so I had to try it for myself. He was very, very right; I would have believed it if someone told me the grilled cheese and tomato soup combo I ordered had been laced with crack.
âOkay,â I nodded, trying to conjure up all of my generic fun facts. âUm⊠Iâm from Hawkins, Indiana⊠I have a brother named Jonathan whoâs four years older than me, and a stepsister named El, but I honestly just refer to her as my sister. I love D&D and Iâm part of the club here, I love to read musician biographies, and sometimes the occasional cheesy romanceâ you know, the ones with the abs on the cover, Iâm a freshman painting major, I love to sing, but Iâm awful at itââ
âNow Iâve gotta hear that singing voice of yours,â Matt declared.
I shook my head vigorously. âNot a chance.â But then Matt gave me puppy eyes. Damnit.
â...Fine. Maybe after our fifth date.â
âIâm holding you to that, Byers.â
âAnywayâŠâ I felt a smile involuntarily spread across my face. Who even was I? Iâd truly believed that I would never be able to smile again after the series of events that went down in August, but here Matt was, making smiling feel so natural. âWhat number was I on?â
âSix, going on seven.â
âAlright, so IâIâm not much of a drinker, but when I do, itâs usually straight up liquor. Like, shots. If Iâm gonna consume alcohol, Iâm gonna suffer while doing it. That way, I wonât end up liking it too much. Donât want to end up like myâŠâ I stopped myself from elaborating further, mentally kicking myself for revealing too much of my life, ââŠfather.â
Matt crossed his arms and slouched back into his seat, seemingly unsurprised. âYour fatherâs an alcoholic, then?â he asked.
I looked down momentarily at my hands, where my knuckles had gone white while clasping them together for dear life. âSomething like that,â I shrugged. âHe usually had beer and whiskey, so I steer clear from those, and just do shots of vodka or tequila. I know thatâs not any better, but I think that if I were to drink beer or whiskey, Iâd feelâŠâ I grimaced at the thought, âmore like his son than Iâd prefer.â
Matt leaned forward once more and reached out to separate my hands with his own, holding them instead. I glanced down at our intertwined fingers, then back up into Mattâs eyes, and felt my face go ablaze with furious flames. âGotcha,â he nodded solemnly as he rubbed his thumb over the back of my hand, âI admire you for distancing yourself away from the path to becoming like him. That alone takes an incredible sense ofâŠâ
âOf what?â I asked, withdrawing my hands from his in order to take another bite of my grilled cheese.
âWould it be corny if I said âWill-powerâ?â Matt glanced at me sheepishly, and I had to hold in a laugh as I chewed.Â
âIncredibly,â I replied. âAlthough, youâre not the first one whoâs said that.â
âDamnit. Who beat me to it?â
âMy friend, Dustin,â I smiled at the thought of my friend. I should call him soon, I thought to myself. I miss him. âHeâs always had the weirdest names for things.â
âLike what?â Matt asked, and I froze. Like what? Like⊠Watergate? Demodog? Vecnapocalypse? I couldnât tell him about any of those things without sounding like a total psychopath or violating the conditions of my NDAs.
I settled on a simple, â... I forgot.â
Matt snapped his fingers, disappointed. âDamn.â
âYeah,â I nodded in agreement, then lifted my eyes up to his again with a small smirk. âBut I know for a fact that Iâll remember something at, like, 1am and call you up to tell you about it.â Matt let out a chuckle at that, and I frowned in confusion.
âSorry to break it to you, honâŠâ Matt replied slowly, testing out the new name on his tongue, making me blush, âbut itâs 1:32am.â
My eyes widened at that. âNo fucking way.â
âWay.â
âWeâve been here for, what,â I checked my watch, just to verify how long weâd been seated in the diner booth, âfour and a half hours? And I still barely know anything about you!â
Matt chuckled. âWeâve gotta finish the list of ten things about you, first!â
âNot my fault you keep distracting me.â
I could hear the smile spreading across his face as he said, âIâm distracting, now, am I?â
âYou are,â I admitted.
Matt narrowed his eyes and stroked his chin in feigned suspicion. âInteresting.â
âOkay,â I took a deep breath, pushing the conversation forward before I got too flustered and lost my train of thought once again. âSo⊠Hawkins, Jonathan and El, D&D, books, my major, singing, alcohol, my father, Dustinââ
âDustin doesnât count,â Matt said.
âHe does, too!â I insisted, letting a little bit of my inner child seep through the cracks of my adult persona.
âFine,â Matt relented with a slight eye roll, âBut only because I like you.â
Well, that was very forward of him. It wasnât too out of pocket, given the fact that Iâd literally made out with him not even ten minutes into knowing his name, but listening to a guy openly admitting his romantic feelings for me without any form of hesitation was something I had yet to get used to. I spent years hiding my own feelings, and Mike⊠fuck Mike. âI like you, too,â I told him, and I felt a sense of⊠accomplishment? This yearâs Moving On Award recipient is⊠Will Byers, from Mike Wheeler to Matt Winters! Cue the fanfare, confetti, et cetera.
â⊠And thatâs ten.â
âReally?â I shook my head in confusion. âWhat was ten?â
âThat youâre into me.â
âOh,â I said with a slight eye roll at my own stupidity, âYeah. I guess that was ten things.â
âAnd thatâs my number one. I like you,â he nudged my foot with his under the table with a smirk, âI have severe ADHD, I had a dog as a kid and named him Swayzeâ he was a pomeranian. Iâm a senior material studies major because I canât make decisions to save my life. I have a passion for writing and have this dream of writing and illustrating my own stories somedayââ
âWoah, me too!â I interrupted, and Mattâs eyes lit up in surprise.
âNo way, you write as well?â
How to Explain The Status of Your Co-Writing Relationship with Your Ex-Best Friend Who You Were in Unrequited but Not Actually Unrequited Love With, All Without Mentioning His Name for Dummies wouldâve been pretty useful right about now. âUh⊠no. I used to work on silly comic books with some of my old friends, but I only illustrated. Someone else did the writing.â
âCool,â Matt nodded in approval.
âI have no idea what's gonna happen next. But, whatever it is, I... I think we should work together. I think it'll be easier if we're... we're a team. Friends. Best friends.â
âCool.âÂ
âCool.â
âSo, uhââ Fuck, I hadnât even realized Iâd spaced out. âThat was five, right?â Matt asked me, and I nodded, taking a sip of my Diet Coke. How long did I dissociate for? This hadnât happened to me in months.
 âMy favorite subject back in high school was Home Economics,â he continued. âFrankly, I think the skills taught in that class helped me out in life way more than any trigonometric equation ever could. I smoke grass regularly, but hate cigarettes.â Now I had a valid reason to quit smoking. Not like I shouldâve been smoking underage to begin with, but that was besides the point.
âI love virtually anything Stephen King, Iâm a coffee connoisseur of sorts since I work at a cafĂ©, andâŠâ Matt leaned his elbow against the table and rested his head on his palm, deep in thought. âIf I were to live anywhere in the world for the rest of my life, it would be Israel.â
I raised a quizzical eyebrow at that. âWhy Israel?â
âI have some extended family there, in Tel-Aviv. I went to Jerusalem a few summers back, and⊠fuck, that city is beautiful. Iâve been there only once, but thereâs something about exploring your religious heritage in the place it originated is so surreal.â
âWait, youâre Jewish, too?â
âYeah. I actually grew up in an Orthodox home, but my parents were really loose with the religious laws and shit. But when I came out as gay, I guess⊠all of the rules suddenly mattered. They cut me off, like, seven years ago,â Matt told me, pressing his knuckles into his palm one by one with his thumb. âWhich, now that I think about it, Iâm not sure if spending the rest of my life in Israel is the most logical idea Iâve ever hadââ
âYou said youâre a senior, right?â I asked. Matt nodded curtly. I did the mental math, and came to the conclusion that either I was horrible at simple subtraction, or⊠âYou were cut off while you were a freshman in high school?â
âYup.â
âWow, I canât even imagine what that must have been like for you. Iâm so sorry.â
âEh, I was better off,â Matt said with a resigned shrug. âI lived with my now-ex, Hayden, for the rest of high school. His parents were so supportive. It made me jealous sometimes. But they ended up being more influential on my life than my own parents had ever been capable of being.â As he spoke, I couldnât help but let my mind drift to my own mom and dad. The opportunity to disown me was right there in front of them, and yet, they hadnât thought twice about accepting me when I came out to them. I was glad that Matt at least had Haydenâs parents to lean on. That was, until they broke up. So did that mean that he didnât have any family at all?
âI kind of donât want to ask this because it sounds pretty fucking shallow in comparison to what you just told me, but⊠whyâd you two break up?â I asked hesitantly. Matt dismissed my self-consciousness with a wave of his hand.
âYouâre totally fine, itâs a valid question. Iâm completely okay with sharing, too, if youâre worried about that.â It was like he was in my head. âI didnât really want to break up with him, honestly. But he insisted that since he was going to Utah for college and I was going to Illinois, long distance wasnât feasible. I just wanted him to be happy, and for us to end things on a high note, so⊠I let him go. After I did, though, I was so hesitant to get back into the dating scene. I couldnât picture myself loving anyone else. He taught me what love was.â
I knew how that felt. I told him so, and he chuckled softly before resting his head on the palm of his hand. âWeâre a lot alike, I think,â he said as he glanced up at me, sparkles dancing in the umber shade of his irises. âArenât we?â Damn, Matt knew how to make a man swoon. I was falling harder for him by the second, and I wasnât in any kind of rush to slow down.
âIâd say so, yeah.â
âGood, Iâm glad you agree,â Matt said. âBecause for the first time in a long time, I can see further than a few days into my future.â
The rest of the night went by faster than either of us could believe. Once the sun had begun to rise, weâd left the diner and headed back into the city. Matt insisted on kissing me at every red light. For years, Iâd held onto the belief that I wasnât worthy of romantically-charged physical contact, yet here Matt was, openly willing to give it to me. So I happily obliged, because what the hell, I hadnât received affection like this in my whole life.
Matt drove us to McKinley Park, and we walked around hand in hand for a little bit longer until both of us were yawning in the middle of every other sentence. We found a nearby bench and I checked my watch, and saw 08:43 flashing back at me. I turned to look at Matt, who was stifling yet another yawn, and I couldnât help but giggle at the complete lunacy that was this twelve hour date.
âThe exhaustion has finally caught up with us, huh?â I teased.
Matt exhaled, leaning his head against my shoulder. âYeahâŠâ
âI donât want this to end, though,â I admitted.
Matt hummed into my tee shirt in with assent before muttering, âWhat if it didnât have to?â
I shrugged, causing Matt to lift his head back up so our eyes could meet. âI donât know what youâre alluding to,â I began, âbut Iâm still not sleeping with youââ
âI never said anything about thatââ
â...Yet.â
âI donât know what youâre implying, but I was planning on simply sleeping.â Matt smirked, continuing on with the comedic bit, despite my confession of being open to having sex with him in the future. âAs in, a synonym of slumber, snoozing, sââ
He was being so adorable, I couldnât take it anymore. I reached up to hold Mattâs face between my hands before pulling him in and firmly pressing our lips together. I felt him gasp against my mouth in surprise, and I realized then that I was the one initiating the kiss this time. And that felt fucking amazing.
âGod, times were easier when those people kept their filth behind closed doors,â I heard a voice say from a few feet away. I let go of Matt and turned to see three men standing together in denim biker jackets in front of the bench we were sitting on.
âWhat did you just say?â I asked, moving to stand up.
âI said that the world was better off when fags like you werenât shoving your ideologies down our throats,â I felt Matt tug on my arm as if to say No, donât feed into it, theyâre not worth it, but I was so beyond done with being mistreated that standing up to these idiots felt like a walk in the park⊠literally.
I approached the men and rested my hands on my hips, popping one out for added Gay Emphasis. âI know of another thing that I could shove down your throat, but I donât think youâd like it all that much.â They stared back at me in stunned silence, but I wasnât done with them yet. âSo if I were you, Iâd back the fuck off and mind your own business. I know a good lawyer.â
They didnât need to be told twice; they immediately fled the scene, leaving me feeling satisfied and Matt shellshocked. I turned back to ask if he was okay, only to be grabbed by my biceps and pushed against a tree a few feet away. And suddenly Mattâs tongue was down my throat. It only lasted for a second before he pulled away, his eyes wild. âThat was so hot. Will,â he whispered, reaching up to hold my face in his hands. âThat was so fucking hot, câmereââ I let out a giggle as Matt kissed my neck once, twice, and then moved back to my lips, swallowing the moan that escaped my throat. It hit me then that we were still in public.Â
âOkay, okay,â I lightly pushed him away, much to both of our disappointment. âLetâs go before we actually get hate crimed.â
I opened my eyes to a popcorn ceiling. I despised popcorn ceilings. I bolted upright, processing this unfamiliar room in a slight panic. When I was met with red walls and a poster of the album âKiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me,â by The Cure, I remembered where I was; Matt and I had gone back to his house after spending twelve hours together. I was in his bed, and he wasnât there with me. He really had been serious about respecting my wishes, and took the couch.
I flopped down onto my back and turned my head so my cheek rested on the pillow Iâd slept on. I breathed in and could immediately identify Mattâs scent; pine and a faint hint of lavender dryer sheets. God, yesterday was a whirlwind. And to think it all started with Shaggy and Dracula.
I turned my head to look out the window to see that the sun was almost set. Iâd slept through the entire day. My sleep schedule was definitely going to be fucked up for a while. Honestly, though, if I had to choose a twelve hour date with Matt Winters or a healthy circadian rhythm, Iâd choose Matt. There was no doubt about it; Iâd fallen hard, and fallen fast.
After letting myself wake up a little more, I pushed myself off of the mattress and wandered out of Mattâs room, down the hall, and into the living room, where Matt was still asleep, a little bit of drool puddling on the decorative pillow below his head. He was an adorable sleeper. As if he could hear my thoughts, Mattâs eyelids fluttered open slowly and I was greeted with a shy smile.
âMorninââ Matt rasped out.
âTry evening,â I replied with a low chuckle.
Matt stood up from his spot on the couch and made his way over to me, lifting a hand to push a piece of hair out of my face and behind my ear. âDid you have a nice sleep?â
âYeah,â I said. Matt intertwined his free hand with mine.
âCan I kiss you?â he asked me. I nodded in lieu of a response, and then I was being pulled in and kissed like Mattâs life depended on it. I was so happy. I was so damn happy that I started smiling into our kiss, effectively breaking it. I looked up at Matt to notice that he was grinning as well, and we broke into a fit of giggles before leaning into each other again and falling, falling, falling⊠right into Mattâs bed.
âThis is getting awfully hot and heavyâ Matt muttered against my lips, and I groped his ass as he hovered over me.
âYeah,â I agreed with half my mind turned to putty, and he grinded down against me, eliciting a moan from the both of us, âIt is.â
âYou wanna stop?â Matt asked, and I pulled away, thinking Iâd made him feel uncomfortable. He must have seen the worry on my face, and was quick to reassure me otherwise with a light peck to my lips. âI mean, I donât want to stop, but⊠I want to respect your boundaries. I wonât do anything you donât feel comfortable with.â
âMatt,â I said, relishing in the sound of his breath hitching following my mention of his name, âIâve never felt this way about a guy in my life. Itâs a crime that we just met a little less than twenty four hours ago.â
With a surge of bravado I didnât know I even had, I flipped us over with a grunt so I was the one on top, bracketing Matt in between my arms. He looked up at me in a haze, his eyes filled with pure lust.
âSo I say fuck it.â
Iâd just gotten back from Painting I, where Miriam had made the announcement that The Heart had been selected for a display in the lobby of the Admissions office building. I was glad that others were able to find joy in the piece Iâd spent hours upon hours in emotional turmoil over. After class, I headed back to my dorm and called Lucas. Weâd started up a routine of calling once a week, if not every two weeks. Dustin and I spoke a little less frequently, but we thankfully had that kind of friendship where we could go a while without talking and pick up right where we left off. El and I spoke almost daily. I heard the ringback tone go through a few times before Lucas picked up.
âHello?â
âHey Lucas, itâs Will,â I said.
âHey, man! Howâve you been?â
âIâve been alright, you?â
âSame here, pushing through,â I heard the sound of a door slamming in the background. âOh, hey babe, Willâs on the phone if you wanna say hi! Max just got in from PT.â
âGive me the phone, stalker,â I heard Max say, and I smiled as I heard the phone shuffling between their hands. âWilliam. My dear.â
âYou let her call you William?â Lucas shouted from a distance. âYou never let me call you William.â
âYou donât let me call you Lukey Poo,â I replied, and I heard Lucas tut in disappointment.
âThereâs a huge difference between the connotations of William versus Lukey Poo. Iâm gonna let you decide which one is degrading.â
âTouchĂ©.â
âSo how are you?â Max asked me.
âIâm good.â
âWoah,â Lucas complained, âso with me youâre just alright, but with Max, youâre good?â
âSame thing.â
âBarely.â
âIâm alrood,â I laughed, leaning back onto my comforter. âOr galright.â
âGod, you sound like Dustin,â Lucas huffed. He wasnât⊠not right about that. âWait, Iâm gonna dial him in, hold on.â There was a brief silence, followed byâ
âLukey Poo! My brother!â
âFor Godâs sake, not you, too.â
âGod is dead, Luc-ass Puke-Ass.â
âBrutal! Will, help me out here.â
âWill? Youâre in Cali?â
âNope, still in Chicago. Hey, Dusty Bun.â
âWould you look at that, the Partyâs back together again!â Lucas exclaimed. âWell⊠minus Mike, of course.â
âAnd El,â Max added.
âYeah, and El,â Dustin repeated. âHow is she, by the way?â Classic Dustin, always asking about El. Maybe Mike had been right in Letter #24 when he mentioned the possible chemistry between those two.
âSheâs good,â I replied. âThe program sheâs in at Vanderbilt is kicking her ass, but sheâs kicking theirs right back.â
âOh yeah, I bet,â Dustin gushed. âSheâs so determined and committed, though, so I believe it.â
âYeah,â Max agreed.
âHas anyone heard from Mike?â Dustin asked, and I felt my mouth go dry.
âNo, he hasnât picked up any of my calls this month,â Lucas said.
âMine either,â Dustin sighed. âWill, have you tried calling him?â
Friends donât lie. âNo.â
âWhy not?â
Why would I was on the tip of my tongue, but I bit it at the last second, opting to reply with, âI think heâs just busy, guys. I heard the writing program at U of Indy was pretty rigorous.â
âFor a kindergartner, maybe!â Lucas snorted. âPlus, Mikeâs always been some sort of prolific author prodigy! It should be a piece of cake for him!â
âRight?â Dustin grumbled. âIâm so confused. He just⊠vanished out of our lives.â
âWill, what if you tried calling him?â Lucas asked me hesitantly before adding, âHeâs always had a thing for you.â
âWhat?â I shot up into a sitting position, unable to comprehend what I had just heard.
âYeah, I gotta admit, buddy, you lost me there, too,â Dustin said.
âI just mean heâd probably pick up if he knew it was you,â Lucas explained, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. âYou and Mike have always been closer with each other compared to the rest of us.â
I exhaled extra heavily, hoping theyâd pick up on my reluctance to do what was being asked of me. âI donât know.â
âI sense some tension,â Dustin remarked. I could see his wiggling eyebrows from all eight hundred and forty-nine miles away. âWhat are you not telling us?â
âNothing! Justââ I cut myself off with a groan. âFine. Iâll call him. But Iâm telling you guys now that heâll probably be like this with me too.â They were completely fine with that. Of course they were. Because they loved to see me suffer, apparently.
We ended the call about half an hour later, and I found myself still sitting on my bed with the receiver in my hand. Was I really debating upon whether or not I should call Mike? Yup. Was it a bad idea? Probably. Was I going to follow through with it? That remained to be seen.
âTo call or not to call,â I whispered to myself, âThat is the question.â Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing, end them. To die.
No. I couldnât do it. Not yet.
Midterms came and went, and suddenly, it was Thanksgiving break. Matt and Riley had invited the rest of our D&D Party to spend Friendsgiving at their house, but I had to decline. I knew that if I didnât come home for the holidays, I would never hear the end of it from my family and friends back in Hawkins.
I had yet to tell my family about Matt. It wasnât like I was intentionally withholding the information from them. I was just so busy between finishing The Heart, organizing D&D campaigns with Kate, and making out with my boyfriend that when I did have time to talk to my family, the conversation was pretty surface-level. But now that we were all in the dining room together, digging into Momâs kick-ass mashed potatoes, Iâd figured that this would be a good time to bite the bullet.Â
âGuys⊠I have some news. Itâs, uh⊠itâs pretty important.â
The sound of everyoneâs forks on their plates stopped mid-scrape. I took a shaky breath. This wouldnât be too difficult; coming out was the worst of it, but I was still anxious as to how everyone would take the news that I was actually dating a boy.
âWhat about, sweetie?â Mom asked.
âSo⊠I might have a boyfriend.â
âMight?â Dad grumbled, stabbing a piece of broccoli with his fork. âSo, what, you have half a boyfriend?â
Mom scoffed. âHopper, for Christâs sakeââ
âWeâre Jewish, Joyce.â
âFor Christâs sakeââ
âMom! Dad! Let him talk,â El cut Mom and Dad off, nodding at me to continue. âYou were saying?â
âI have a whole boyfriend,â I playfully rolled my eyes. âWeâve been dating since the beginning of this month.â
âIâm very happy for you, Will. You deserve this,â my brother said in earnest, and I tried not to get choked up. Heâd really been there for it all, hadnât he? Heâd seen me fall in love for the first time, and helped me through all of the grief and heartbreak that followed.
âThanks, Jon.â
âSo whatâs this boyâs name?â Dad asked.
âMatt Winters.â
âMatt Winters,â El repeated, her eyebrows furrowing as she processed this new information. She shifted her gaze back up to me. âAnd you like him?â
âUm⊠I wouldnât be dating him if I didnât like him.â
âSo why didnât you invite him here for Thanksgiving?â Mom asked, looking almost offended if it werenât for the wide smile on her face. âYou know we have no problem with hosting guests!â
âYeah, I know. Thatâs not the reason why I didnât invite him, though,â I grimaced. How could I explain that Matt wasnât anything like Mike, and that I wasnât sure how theyâd react to me dating someone new? How could I explain that I still wasn't exactly completely over Mike yet, and taking Matt home to Hawkins with me would have felt a little bit too⊠soon for me?
âI donât know,â I continued, âI⊠I just⊠I want to make sure the guy I bring home for holidays is someone Iâm one hundred percent serious about. And Iâve only been dating him for, like, less than a month, not to mention heâs my first boyfriend ever! Cut me some slack!â
âSo I guess you could say that this Matt is out of your⊠Wheelhouse,â Jonathan muttered, and El snorted. He just had to go there, didnât he?
âHmm,â Dad stroked his beard in thought. âI wonder if that tall glass of water of yours is back in town yet.â
âNo, please, not this again,â I whined, putting my head in my hands as discussion about Mike Wheeler broke out at the dinner table. This had been a common occurrence throughout all of high school. Everyone in my family had convinced themselves that Mike reciprocated my feelings, and that we would eventually get together.
El and Jon teased me endlessly whenever I came home from Mikeâs place, and forced me to recount every single second weâd spent together. Mom was a meddler; sheâd always find ways to get Mike over to our house for family meals, and made it a point to emphasize the word family with the implication that he was a part of it. When Mike asked me to senior prom, that was the icing on the cake for Dad; I think he even made a chart after that. Dad was both my biggest cheerleader and my biggest comfort, especially when I told him about what happened after I found the letters.
But that chapter was over.
I cleared my throat, and everyone stopped talking, turning to face me. âMatt is really great, guys,â I said in a low voice. âAnd yeah, heâs not Mike, but⊠at least give him a chance, will you? Iâll bring him home during Spring Break, and you guys can meet him then.â
The fall semester had finally come to an end, and of course, we had to party about it. Matt had arrived at my dorm room to pick me up, and when Aaron noticed us kissing in the doorway, he had more than a few choice words to say to and about us. Iâd played it off like I usually did, claiming it wasnât a huge deal, but I had been dealing with Aaronâs bullshit for months now. It was like he was an ice pick, chipping away at my soul as if to say, âLetâs see how much verbal abuse Will can take before he shatters!â This was the breaking point for me. So when we got to the party, I drank. And drank. And drank.
Iâd somehow lost track of Mattâs whereabouts, and found myself standing in an alley next to the building where the party was going on. There was a payphone stationed near the entrance of the alley, so I decided to take a little trip there and use the rest of my spare change to make a phone call.
âHello?â
Was that Mom? Holy shit, it was Mom! I knew she was small, but I didnât know she could fit into a pay phone! How did she know I was there?!
Oh, wait, I thought, I called her. She isnât actually inside the pay phone, idiot⊠Why did I call her again?
âHello?â I heard her ask again. Fuck, I already forgot she was on the phone.
âMooooom. Mommy. Hi,â I slurred, leaning against the wall. I thought right then that Iâd have been perfectly content melting directly into the concrete.
âWill,â Mom said, her voice getting all hushed and concerned, âAre you okay?â
âYup!â I proclaimed to the empty alley. My voice echoed all the way down to the other end. âIâm faaaaantastic. Just a lilâ drunk, though.â
âI can hear that, honey.â
âIs Dad there?â I asked, wrapping the metal cord around my wrist. I briefly considered what it would be like if I ever decided to introduce handcuffs into mine and Mattâs sex life, and I swore I gave myself heart palpitations just by thinking about it.
âDad is passed out on the couch and snoring like a trucker,â Mom replied, pulling me out of my filthy, filthy thoughts. âWhy? Do you want to talk with him?â
âNo,â I shook my head, looking around to make sure I wasnât holding up a line or something. I most definitely wasnât. âI just wanted to make sure I didnât⊠I donât know, ruin your night or something. Fridays are usually your movie nights.â
âOh, we already watched our movie a few hours ago, some easily forgettable rom-com.â I could hear my momâs smile as she spoke. I loved seeing my mom so happy ever since she married Dad. It was like sheâd been brought back to life. âNow Iâm just reading in the big blue arm chair, and so itâs just you and me.â
âPerfect,â I said, turning around and leaning my forehead against the brick and mortar in front of me, âCuzzz I gotta-lotta-say.â
â... You sure youâre okay?â Mom asked, and I hummed in substitution of a âyes.â
âIâm suuurrreee,â I closed my eyes and grinned at the sound of my drawn-out syllables, but they snapped open again at the memory of standing in my old living room being yelled at by a very similarly-sounding drunken voice. âAnâ I promise âmnot an alcoholic. I donât wannanduhlidah,â I said, and lifted my hand up, extending my index finger to emphasize my point. I heard my mom lightly snicker on the other end of the line.
âCan you repeat that?â she asked me. âIâm having a little bit of a hard time understanding you.â Fuck. I must have been really drunk for her to not have understood me. God, I really was turning into myâ
âHmm⊠dâya think Iâll end up like Lonnie?â
âBaby, are you kidding me? You are nothing like Lonnie.â
âHe usedta drink a lot. A looooootttttt. RememâŠemmâŠmer? Anâ he alwaysssaid Iâll never be a man. He called me a fairy. A faââ I felt my voice crack as emotions took over my psyche, and I silently cursed myself for still crying over my dad over a decade later.
âWill. I want to make myself very clear,â my mom told me, and I stood up a bit straighter. Unlike me. âHeâs less than half the man that you are. You are an incredible, talented, sweet young man. Being gay doesnât negate any of the great qualities you have.â
âIâm a teeerrrible person,â I said, and mouthed along with my momâs predictable reply.
âYou are not a terrible person.â
âBut what about what I did to Mike?â I whined.
âYou did what you needed to do to protect yourself, baby. Heâll understand that eventually.â
ïżœïżœBut what if I made a misssTAKE?â
âOnly time will tell. Itâs never too late to call him.â
âYeah.â I looked up and noticed that at one point or another, Matt had joined me in the alley. How much of the conversation had he heard? Hopefully not too much. âHey, mom?â
âYeah?â
âI love you.â
âI love you too, honey,â Mom replied. âNow make sure to go hydrate. Stay safe, okay?â
I nodded, realized that she couldnât see me nodding, and provided verbal confirmation this time around with an, âOkie. Byeeeee.â I was so drunk. I hung up before turning to face my boyfriend. âHey, babe,â I greeted him with a shit eating grin on my face. He was so so cute. Adorable. Gorgeous. Hot. Sexy. Edible. âWhere have you been? You having a good time?â
âIâve spent the past fifteen or so minutes looking for you!â Matt said, scuffing the soles of his Converse against the gravel that lined the sides of the alley. âWas that actually your mom?â
Well, duh, I thought. Who else would I call âmomâ? Well, besides Steve, obviously. âYeah! She said to say hi to you for her, by the way.â That was a total lie, but it would keep the tone light.
Or so I thought, because Matt had one more question for me. It was the one question that Iâd been dreading ever since weâd started dating. âWhoâs Mike?â
I was way too intoxicated to have this conversation right now. I met Mattâs eyes for a second, shook my head and battled my way through a choked, âWe used to be friends. But heâs dead to me now. You have nothing to worry about,â before keeling over and violently throwing up onto the ground.
âAlright, sweetheart, weâve gotta get you back to the dorms. Youâre absolutely wasted,â Matt coaxed me to stand up and threw one of my arms around his shoulders. âYou mind if I ask Pete for backup? I donât think I can get you home by myself.â
âYou calling me fat, Winters?â
âI think we both know they donât call you Buff Byers âcause youâre fat, Will.â
âWaiiit a minute, who told you about the Buff Byers thing?â
âI have my sources.â
A few minutes later, weâd successfully located Pete within the sea of people heâd been dancing with, and we had to bribe him with twenty dollars to get him to leave the party and help us out. We said goodbye to everyone else on our way out, but right before we reached the door, I recognized the song blasting from the PA system and shouted, âI fucking love this song!â The song in question was âThere is a Light That Never Goes Out,â by The Smiths. I happily drawled along with the lyrics to the song as my friend and boyfriend practically carried me down the street and back to the dorms. The singing didnât stop when we reached my dorm hall, or when they dragged me up the stairs, or even when they fished through my pockets for a solid five minutes, trying to find my keys to let us in.
âAnd if a tennn tonnn truuuck⊠kills the both of us⊠To die by your siiide, well, the pleasure, the privilege is miiine,â I murmured the last chorus, getting a bit emotional as I watched Matt take off my Vans and help me into bed. He was too kind to me. I didnât deserve it.
âVecna wouldâve had a field day with youâŠâ I sighed, which resulted in a confused chuckle from my boyfriend. My sweet, sweet boyfriend who had no idea about what Iâd been through, or the damage I was capable of. So much for my NDAs. I could just blame it on the alcohol if he asked about it later. Matt tucked me in under my comforter, brushing my bangs off my forehead and pressing a kiss there.
âAlright, lover boy, sleep tight.â
I was in the passenger seat of a car, and the road was dark, save for the headlights that lit the road in front of me. I looked down at my hand, which was being held by a very familiar and large hand. My eyes lifted up to see Mike in the driverâs seat, tapping the steering wheel with his fingers to the beat of some synth pop song that was playing out of his car radio.
âMike?â A smile graced his features as I said his name. He didnât take his eyes off the road as he rubbed a thumb over the top of my hand. What the hell?
âYeah, baby?â This was pure insanity. There was no way heâd actually called meâ
â... Baby?â
âWhat is it, love?â Mike replied so casually that I wanted to scream. But I pushed my emotions back down, settling back into the passenger seat and pretending like this was a totally normal occurrence.
â... Nothing,â I muttered, the fingers of my right hand picking at one of the rips on the knee of my jeans. âItâs justâŠâ
âWill, weâve been together for, what, five years now. Donât tell me youâre uncomfortable with me calling you âbaby.ââ
Five years. Jesus Christ. âNo. No, youâre fine,â I said.
âGood,â Mike grinned before bringing our joined hands to his lips to kiss the back of my hand. âI love you.â My head was spinning.
âI love you, too,â I heard myself say without even thinking about it. Okay, this is officially a dream, I thought. This is way too good to be true.
We continued on down the seemingly endless road for a few more miles before I spoke up again. âSo⊠where are we going?â
âHeaven,â Mike replied.
âYouâre funny,â I deadpanned, âNo, really, where are we going?â
âHeaven,â Mike repeated. I felt a little bit guilty when I found myself staring at this dream version of Mike, trying my best to commit him to memory. âI mean it, Will. To die by your side⊠itâd be such a heavenly way to die.â That sounded familiar. Where was that line from again?
âWait, what?â I asked, but before Mike could clarify, he was pressing his foot as hard as he possibly could onto the gas pedal, accelerating until the speedometer was essentially useless. Within seconds, heâd sent the car plummeting off the edge of theâ cliff??â weâd been driving alongside the entire time.
The car flipped with a likeness to an Olympic gymnast, and I heard the sound of bones cracking above the faint background music that was still playing. Iâd always wondered about that kind of scenarioâ if someone got into a fatal car accident; would the music continue to play? Apparently so, considering that the song âStayinâ Alive,â by the Bee Gees was still playing. That song should never be played in a car for this exact reason; the irony is simply too cruel.
The car eventually gave up on trying to be a flying trapeze artist and settled in a diagonal position with the wheels in the air. Smoke from the undercarriage of the car traveled through the air vents and filled my lungs, and I struggled to breathe. But I didnât even care; I had to check on Mike, see if he was okay.
He was not. I turned to my left side, and screamed in horror at the sight of Mikeâs bloodied, mangled body sprawled across the dashboard, broken glass pricking his bare arms. Wait⊠there was no way his arm could be way over there and still beâ oh my god. Mikeâs arm. It had been ripped off his body. Holy shit. Mikeâs arm wasâ
âMike,â I forced out amidst my heaving breaths. âMichael, can you hear me?â I reached out and smacked him in the face in an attempt to wake him up. Please donât be dead. âMichael James, if you donât fucking respond to me right now Iâm gonnaââ
âRelax, Will. Iâm still here.â Using his middle name always did work like a charm.
I let out a high-pitched sob in relief. âDonât scare me like that.â
âIâm sorry,â Mike said quietly, his own breathing labored. He glanced down at his arm and whispered something along the lines of Would you look at that, my arm is gone, but I couldnât exactly tell; his speech was starting to sound garbled, as if he was choking on blood. He coughed a bit out, and I watched it dribble down his chin, proving my hypothesis correct. He was going to die without immediate medical attention.
âCome on, let meââ I went to undo my seatbelt, but realized that my limbs had stopped working. â... I canât move,â It was most likely a severed spinal cord. âMike, I canât move.â I couldnât move, and the last time Iâd ever touched Mike was in the form of a slap in the face.
âMe neither, baby,â Mike laughed. His arm was quite literally torn off his body, yet he still found the will within himself to laugh. Maybe he was in shock, and the adrenaline had numbed his pain receptors. I wasnât sure. But what I was sure of was that this dream needed to end. It was getting a bit too real.
âWeâre in the middle of nowhere, Mike! Weâre gonna fucking die out here if someoneââ
âShh. Weâre okay,â Mike whispered, closing his eyes as he spoke. âWeâve got each other, right?â Crazy together. Deranged together. Batshit insane together.
Dead together.
â...Right,â I shut my own eyes, but was only able to for about two seconds before Mike was hacking up blood. I watched as it splattered across the surface of the shattered windshield. âWeâre really gonna die, huh?â
âAll that matters is that Iâm dying with the love of my life by my side,â Mike muttered, all of the color slowly draining out of his face. âThe pleasureâ no, the privilegeâ is mine.â I watched his head loll to the side as the blood loss and lack of oxygen to his brain caused his heart to stop beating.
I was startled by the sound of someone gasping, and paused when I realized that the sound was coming from me. I tried to catch my breath, lifting a hand to my heart to try and ground myself with my heartbeat. I felt the familiar sensation of tears pricking the corners of my eyes, and I shut them tightly, hoping the image of Mikeâs severed arm would eventually fade.
âYou okay?â I heard from across the room, and I squinted my eyes to see my roommate sitting up in bed. Why did he care? He hated me. Heâd aimed slurs at me all the way down the hallway when Matt had come to pick me up for the party earlier. What changed?
âUh⊠yeah. Yeah, Iâm fine, thanks,â I forced out, turning away from him and facing the front of my body towards the wall. I just needed to think of a good memory and play it out on a loop in my head to fall back asleep. Iâd done it before.
A strong hand belonging to Aaron met my shoulder, and I gasped at the sudden contact. How had he gotten over to my side so quietly? Why was he over here at all? Why was he touching me like that? âYou donât sound fine,â Aaron whispered, his mouth close enough to my neck that the tendrils at the nape stood straight up. There was a sinking feeling in my stomach; something felt wrong. âNo, really, Iâm fiââ
Before I could even process what was happening, his hand shifted down my arm and firmly grasped my wrist. âWhat are you doing? Stop it,â I told him, and shook my arm in an attempt to get him off of me, but that only ignited something in him, because he pushed me from where Iâd been laying on my side and onto my stomach, straddling me and holding me down. âPlease stop. Please stop. Stop, stop, stop, stop, stopââ
He grabbed my other wrist and held both of them in one of his hands, as he forced my head into my pillow by my neck with the other to shut me up. He leaned down so his nose was buried in my hair, and I writhed in his grip as he inhaled. âI can make you feel better, Will,â he ghosted his lips over my ear. âJust stay quiet, and we wonât have any problems.â This could not be happening. It had to be another nightmare.
But I already knew the truth; I was wide awake.
The next few weeks were a blur. Aaron left and hadnât come back after he raped me that night. I didnât leave my room. I bailed on my date night with Matt over the weekend. He asked me over the phone at one point if I was planning on returning home for Hanukkah, and I glanced at my calendar for a moment of contemplation, noticing that the first two days had already passed before giving him a halfhearted, âNah. Iâve already missed the first two days, and wouldnât be able to catch up. Iâm just gonna⊠stay here, I guess.â
That was a horrible idea, because the next thing I knew, my mother was in my dorm room, the expression on her face reading as a combination of disappointment and worry. âHi, Mom,â I greeted her in a weak voice, and she merely shook her head, stomping over to my bed and whipping out a fucking stethoscope from her purseâ courtesy of Owens, I assumed.
Despite my protests of being fine, she pressed her hand to my forehead before pressing the stethoscope to my heart, then to my back to hear my lungs. She dropped the stethoscope back into her purse and squeezed both of my shoulders, her eyebrows nearly becoming one with how hard she was frowning. âWilliam Jacob Byers, you tell me whatâs going on right now. Skipping Hanukkah without any call or explanation?!â I was in deep shit. She helped me pack up my things and drove us back to Hawkins that same day.
I didnât tell my mom exactly what had happened, but did confess that I had been in a depressive state of being for the past few weeks following something traumatic that happened to me. Thankfully, she didnât press me in regards to the topic of said trauma, but instead made an appointment with my old Upside Down therapist, Judith. I went to see her the day after I got home. Judith was a great therapist. I was so often the listener in my day-to-day life, but she took the approach of âyou talk, I nod and give advice when you want it,â so it felt great to have the opportunity to rant about my problems and get validation from a sweet elderly lady who wore her own hand-knitted sweaters.
When I told Judith about what had happened with Aaron, sheâd asked me if I told my family or Matt about it. I said no, I hadnât. She asked why, and I admitted I was just afraid of my family becoming overbearing like they had been when I was a kid, and I was terrified of losing Matt over something I hadnât been able to control. She suggested that if I couldnât tell my family, I should at least tell my boyfriend when I was ready, as it wasnât fair to him to continuously cancel our plans and keep him in the dark. I thought back to the last time we spoke, where heâd expressed feeling like heâd done something wrong when he hadnât done anything wrong at all.
My mom had also managed to arrange weekly sessions over the phone for when I went back to Chicago. Recovery isnât linear, as Judith often said. She was right. And in order to begin recovery, I needed to take that first step. So I spoke with Matt on the phone that night. He confessed to having called my mom, and was surprised when I wasnât angry about it. I actually thanked him, because if it werenât for my mom, I probably wouldâve still been rotting away in my bed back in Chicago. When he asked me why I was depressed, I broke down crying at first, but found enough strength in myself to tell him the truth about what Aaron had done to me.
âIâm gonna kill that son of a bitch,â heâd said. âAnd as soon as you get back, weâre going to move you into my place. Rileyâs moving Kate in after break, too. But you cannot go back to living with that asshole.â
Right before we ended the call, I wrote his phone number and address information down on a post-it. âIâll see you in a few weeks,â Matt had told me. âI love you.â
âBye,â I whispered, hanging the phone back up on the wall.
I prayed to whatever higher powers existed that my friends would just fucking give up already on trying to get Mike to hang out with us. For the past few months, the Party had been updating me on Mikeâs whereaboutsâ or lack thereofâ as heâd essentially fallen off the grid. I wasnât particularly surprised, because I understood why he cut me off, but then again, why had everyone else been lumped in with me on Mikeâs Do Not Interact list?
âAre you sure this is a good idea?â I asked hesitantly.
âWhy wouldnât it be?â Max countered, looking up from her and Elâs joined hands, where sheâd been painting Elâs nails a shade of deep purple. I shrugged, not sure how to go about explaining why I was discouraging them from contacting ourâŠ. no, their friend.
âI donât know,â I muttered, glancing back down at my sketchbook, where Mikeâs left eye had begun to take shape on the page. I resisted the urge to cringe at myself. âJust⊠donât expect much from him.â
âBelieve me, man, I know,â Lucas said, slumping down entirely too forcefully onto the couch next to me with his cordless phone in his lap. âHe never calls any of us anymore, weâre always the ones who have to reach out to him.â
âWhich is why weâre calling him now,â Dustin reiterated the same sentiment that heâd been mulling over for the past half hour, pacing all the while. âWeâre useless to Mike if we donât at least try.â
âOkayyy,â I shrugged all of their ignorantly charged hope off my shoulders. âBut as long as Iâm in the picture, you wonât have any luck getting him into the same room with us. So donât say I didnât warn you when he declines.â
âWhat happened between you two, anyway?â Dustin stopped pacing and adjusted his MIT hat. I really hoped his new Thinking Capâą was⊠faulty, or something, so he wouldnât have any chance of figuring out the truth.
âNothiââ I began, but El started talking at the same time as me, leaving me unable to keep her from saying:
âHe and Will had a falling out.â
âEl, for fuckâs sake, oh myââ I slapped a palm to my forehead in a combination of embarrassment and frustration. This was not how Iâd wanted the Party to find out about this⊠in fact, I wouldâve been completely content if they never found out at all and if Mike just⊠if heâd just⊠stayed away. I gulped at that soberingâ and borderline concerningâ thought.
âOver what? When? How? Spill!ââ Dustin appeared in front of me, shaking my shoulders. He hesitated for a moment, gripping my shoulders a little tighter, and then letting go altogether before⊠petting my arms? I heard Lucas huff a laugh through his nose as he began dialing Mikeâs number, which I subconsciously recited in my head as he pressed each key.
âOn a completely different note,â Dustin retreated back to the bowl of Cool Ranch Doritos on Lucasâ kitchen table, âyou have got to explain when and how you got so muscular! Youâre, like, hot. You should go into, like, a bodybuilding competition. Iâd vote for you.â El and Max burst out laughing. I shielded my face with my hand, a mild embarrassment quickly consuming me.
âEveryone shut up, Iâm putting him on speaker,â Lucas announced, and I sighed, grateful that the conversation had officially been diverted away from The Fight. Not like my body composition was a better topic by any means, but Iâd take what I could get.
âHello?â Mrs. Wheelerâs voice came through on the other end of the line. Iâd forgotten that Mike shared a single landline with his family, insisting that our walkies were immortal. Spoiler alert: No, they were not; they eventually died permanently back in 1988, rest their souls. May their memory be for a blessing.
âHey Mrs. Wheeler, itâs Lucas. How are you?â
âOh, Lucas! Iâm doing okay, sweetie, thank you for asking! Howâs⊠UCLA, right?â
âYou remembered! I'm busy all the time, but itâs going well, Mrs. W.,â Lucas grinned. Max rolled her eyes as she muttered a quiet, âKiss ass.â
âWell, Iâm sure you didnât call here to talk to your friendâs mom, so Iâll get Mike for you. One second,â she chuckled to herself. There was a brief moment of silence, and thenâ
âMICHAEL!â Mrs. Wheelerâs screeching voice came through clear as a bell, and the rest of us had to hold in our laughter. âLUCAS IS ON THE PHONE!â Sheâd accidentally covered the wrong end of the receiver. We heard the low thump of footsteps down the stairs, a bit of shuffling as the phone changed hands, and a quiet thanks, mom beforeâ
âHello?â
And suddenly, I couldnât feel a thing. Fuck.
âMike!â
âItâs been ages, bro!â
 âWhere have you been?â
â... Heeeyyy guys,â the all too familiar voice of Mike Wheeler came through the speaker, and I had to refrain from curling up on the floor and melting into a puddle of tears. I forgot how much I missed his voice. However, it sounded slightly hoarse, probably due to talking to the point of overuse, or having just woken up⊠at four in the afternoon? No, overuse sounded more reasonable; Mike had never been a quiet person. Shutting the fuck up simply wasnât in his vocabulary.
âItâs good to hear youâre alive and well, man,â Lucas said.
I think I was the only one who made out the sarcasm-laced laugh on Mikeâs end: âHmmh⊠yeah. So⊠whatâs up?â
âYour dick,â Mattâs voice offered up in my head. I shoved my boyfriendâs vulgar humor into the furthest corner of my mind, because the last thing I needed to think about right now was Mikeâs dick. Not like Iâd thought about it prior to this. Well⊠not very often.
âWeâre hanging out at my place right now, and we wanted to see if you feel like making the trek across the vast expanse of our lawns to join us!â Lucas replied.
There was a moment of silence on Mikeâs end, followed by a shaky exhale. â... Is he gonna be there?â
Lucas furrowed his eyebrows. âWho?â
âI think you know who I mean, Lucas.â I pointed at myself with a look that screamed I told you so, and Lucasâ eyes widened dramatically at the realization that I was, in fact, right. Mike wanted nothing to do with me.
â... Yeah,â he said in a low voice with a likeness to a confession, not once breaking eye contact with me. I was not going to be let out of this one easily.
âYeah no, Iâll pass. Thanks, though.â
âAre you sââ Lucas began to protest.
âBye, guys,â Mike cut him off before promptly hanging up, leaving everyone elseâs jaws on the floor. And then⊠all eyes on me. Understandably.
âHeâs been like this since August,â Dustin was the one to start talking. He looked rather accusatory as his eyes narrowed, and I felt my stomach fall out of my ass. âSo⊠whatever you did must have really fucked him up.â
âHey!â I put my hands up, âWhat makes you think I was the one who did something?!â
âY-yeah,â Lucas added on, âlike, maybe Mike did something to⊠I donât know. Whatever happened between you two, though, itâs made him really distant. I think something is seriously wrong.â I suddenly felt the air in the Sinclairsâ living room run cold, and⊠looked up to see Max adjusting the thermostat. I would never get used to the concept of central air, even after having it in my own house for years.
âWhat do you mean?â El asked, her voice quiet.
âOkay, for instance, you know how Mikeâs a talker?â
âUnfortunately.â
âWell, that Mike is gone, because phone conversations between us never make it past three and a half minutes,â Lucas said, his eyes trained on the floor as he spoke. âItâs all hey bro, how are you doing, good, good, howâs school, great, Iâm busy actually, can I call you at some other point and we can catch up, yeah sure talk soon. The end. And then he never calls me back.â
âYeah, heâs been short with me, too,â Dustin added. âAnd thatâs saying something, because that man is a fucking skyscraper.â
âYou must know something, Will,â Max said from where she stood, returning the focus of the conversation back onto me. Honestly, I was starting to get a bit frustrated. Iâd obviously played a pretty large role in Mikeâs downward spiral, and it was eating away at me with every new second that passed. But at the same time, I thought my friends would take the news of our falling out as a sign to not press me about him.
âI really donât, actually,â I replied, âand Iâm kind of confused as to why this is my problem.â
âWoah, Will, calm down, I didnât mean to make you get defensive,â Max said, her eyes wide, probably surprised at my blatant apathy to the situation. âItâs just that you two were so close for years, and I thought⊠I thought maybe you were just trying to protect him, or something.â
That was fair. âRight,â I whispered, and closed my eyes for a moment. âIâm sorry for snapping. Iâm justââ I opened my eyes back up, âIâm tired of talking about Mike. Heâs not gonna change, so why are we still trying?â I was nervous for a moment that Iâd pushed a bit too hard attempting to move on from the current conversation, but was relieved when everyone nodded in agreement.
âThatâs a very good point,â Lucas said. âLetâs change the subject.â
âYeah, letâs change the subjectâŠâ El trailed off, sending a mischievous smirk my way. âWill got a boyfriend.â
I was going to murder my sister. I knew she meant well, but⊠I was going to murder her.
âBoyfriend?!â everyone shouted at the same time, shock spreading like wildfire across their faces. I nodded, and then the questions started hitting.
âWhatâs his name?â
âWhereâs he from?â
âWhat is he majoring in?â
âWe need details, Byers! Details!â
âMatt Winters, yes, the initials are purely coincidental, Winston-Salem North Carolina, and heâs a senior material studies major.â
âAnd he treats you well?â Lucas asked, and I turned to face him, pulling my sketchbook closer to my chest.
âMore than well,â I replied earnestly. âHeâs⊠heâs incredible, honestly. Heâs sweet, heâs talented, heâs affectionate, heâs out of the closetâŠâ Unlike someone else I knew. But they didnât have to know that.
I didnât need to continue listing adjectives for much longer, because my friendsâ previously unison bumbling split into two separate subconversations. I heard Lucas and Max bickering about how Lucas never said things like that about Max and itâs a wonder she hadnât dumped his ass for the fourteenth time by now; Lucas rebutted with the fact that all their friends knew her already and therefore didnât need Lucas to elaborate upon her best qualities. Dustin turned to El and nudged her with his elbow. She turned to him, giving her full attention as he muttered quietly, but not quiet enough to the point that I couldnât overhear, âMikeâs gonna be pissed.â I watched my sister take in this information before she nodded with a tight grimace.
Mikeâs gonna be pissed.
I let out a shaky breath I hadnât been aware that Iâd been holding, and looked down at my hands, which had somehow become fists in my lap. Mikeâs gonna be pissed. But I was finally happy. I had Matt, and he was a better boyfriend than I could have ever asked for. Mikeâs gonna be pissed. So what? He messed with my head, he deserved it. Mikeâs gonna be pissed.
âHey, um, Iâm going to the bathroom, Iâll be right back,â I said to no one in particular, and ignored everyoneâs suddenly concerned voices as they faded into background noise. I closed the bathroom door a bit harder than necessary, and put a hand over my mouth as I began to hyperventilate. Mikeâs gonna be pissed. Mikeâs gonna be pissed. Mikeâs gonna be pissed.
I leaned forward and vomited into the toilet.
I mounted my bike and knocked the kickstand up with my foot, leaning my weight onto the right pedal as I biked down the empty streets of Hawkins. It had been a long day at Melvaldâs; Iâd been tasked with running the store for the weekend on account of it being my parentsâ wedding anniversary, and my dad had planned a surprise trip for my mom to Lake Superior. On any other occasion, it would have been fine. Working at Melvaldâs wasnât the problem, rather, it was my last week of working there before I left for college wherein lied the issue.
It was the day after The Fight. âCan you grab some coin rolls from the back, honey?â my mom had asked me from the counter. I nodded, put down the notebooks Iâd been stocking, and headed to the supply closet, turning up the volume on my walkman as I went. The lyrics of Billy Squierâs âMy Kinda Lover,â infiltrated my mind as I grabbed the coin rolls and walked back to the counter, where⊠oh no. Mike Wheeler was walking down the sidewalk in the direction of our store.
âFuck,â I whispered to myself as I approached my mom. She looked up at me, her smile fading when she noticed the panic in my expression. âMom?â I felt my voice waver, âMom, hide me. Please.â
âWhat? Whyââ she asked, but there was no time to explain. Mike was mere feet away from the door. Heâd probably fucking seen me by now.
âJust do it,â I begged. âPlease.â She thankfully didnât press me any further and gestured for me to duck below the register. I did so as quickly as I possibly could, and held my breath as I waited for the little bell above the door to ring. And it did.
âHey, Mike!â I heard my momâs voice above me, and I lowered my head into my hands. What the hell was I even doing? Why was I such a coward? I couldnât even face Mike, while heâd come all the way to my momâs store, probably looking forâ
âHey Ms. ByersâŠâ I heard Mike say, âIs Will here by any chance? I need to talk to him.â He definitely sounded like he hadnât slept last night. I hadnât, either. I couldnât. Not with the feeling of Mikeâs lips on mine existing for the sole purpose of haunting me. I wanted so badly to stand up, jump the counter, and pull Mike into me so hard that it would send us crashing to the floor so hard that weâd get permanent amnesia and therefore erase the horrors of the past twenty four hours from our memories.
âIâm so sorry, sweetie, he left a little while ago.â
I heard Mike sigh. âIs he headed home? Orââ
âIâm honestly not sure, he never tells me anything these days.â
âWell, when you see him next, can youâŠâ His voice brokeâ and so did my heart. âCan you please tell him to call me?â
âYes, absolutely.â
âThank you. I hope you have a great rest of your day.â
âYou⊠too,â my mom said slowly, and I heard the bell ring once more as Mike left the store. Out of nowhere, I felt my momâs foot lightly kicking my shin, and I knew then that I was in trouble. I stood up to see her leaning against the counter with her arms crossed.
âWhat in the world happened that could possibly make you want to hide under a counter to avoid your best friend of thirteen years?â
âListen, itâs complicatedââ
âYou love Mike!â
âYeah, and thatâs the problem, Mom!â I broke down then, my voice dissolving into quiet sobs. She pulled me down to her level and rubbed my back comfortingly, but I didnât stop talking. âI love him. I love him so much it hurts. And Iâd just come to terms with him not feeling the same, but yesterday, I found twenty six love letters to me that heâd written over the past two yearsâ yeah, according to the letters, it turns out heâs apparently gay and in love with me, what the hell are the odds of that happeningâ and when I brought them to him asking for answers, he just kissed me.â
Mom pulled away then, her eyebrows furrowing across her forehead. âHe kissed you?! Wow! Isnât that a good thââ
âNo!â I groaned, running a hand through my hair. âNo, itâs not a good thing, because it isnât true! He doesnât love me. He just said he did, and he says a lot of thingsââ
âHe was probably just scared, baby! Remember how nervous you were to come out to me and Dad? Besides, you know he hasnât ever really been the best at expressing his feelings. He most likely wrote those letters because he was too afraid to tell you.â
I shrugged. âYeah. Um, youâre probably right.â
This flashback, in combination with what Iâd overheard the last time I hung out with the Party, had me so far gone into a mental breakdown that I thought I was going to explode. Mikeâs gonna be pissed. Mikeâs gonna be pissed. Mikeâs gonna be pissed. I was distraught. I couldnât go home like this without Jonathan and El asking me a thousand and one questions, so I decided to take a little detour to the park.
âWe stealthily made it out of my window and down onto the ground without dying, and then we grabbed our bikes before making our great escape. We biked out into the night, wind whipping through our hair, and I just felt so free. And for a second, just a split second, I imagined what it would be like if we were together, and we were sneaking off to make out in the woods or something. That would be so romantic.â
I eventually reached the playground of my childhood. My eyes drifted to the swingset; it looked so small and rickety now, compared to how I used to imagine it as a castle when I was a kid. I sat down on one of the swings, getting used to the feel of the hard plastic pushing into my sides. My friends werenât kidding. Long gone was the skinny kid I used to be; I really had built up more muscle than I knew what to do with. I took a deep breath and propelled myself off of the wood chips by my heels. As the cool wind blew through my hair, emotions ran high as it hit me that I had grown up.
âHi, Iâm Michael! Do you want to be my friend?â âYes!â I felt a few stray tears escape my eyes, and pulled a hand off one of the chains to brush them away. I continued swinging for a few more minutes, hoping that it would calm me down, but I just got even sadder as time dragged on. I met Mike on these swings, I thought. We were best friends. I loved him. Now that we donât talk⊠heâs just a ghost. I jumped off the swings and took a few seconds to reorient myself, glancing down at my shoes.
But then, I heard a faint rumbling across the pavement, and looked up from the ground to see a tall figure skateboarding down the sidewalk. Oh my god. It was Mike. Mike was here. Mike was⊠out of the house? Oh my god, Mike was skateboarding at night in my direction. I felt panic rise into my throat and suddenly felt the urge to throw up again. I had to hide. Fuck, I really had to hide, because Mike was getting closer and closer and I was in no condition to talk to him.
I dashed across the playground, trying my best to stay as quiet and as low to the ground as possible in order to not be seen. I managed to reach the metal slide and crouched behind it, raising my head the slightest bit upwards so I could see over the edge of it. Hawkins still hadnât replaced that damn slide, even after all the times my friends and I had burnt our asses in the ninety degree summer heat throughout our elementary school days.
As Mike approached the playground, he skidded his skateboard to a stop and paused to look around, probably making sure he was the only one there. His head turned in my direction, and I prayed my reflexes were quick enough as I escaped his line of sight. They thankfully seemed to suffice as I heard the wheels of his board begin to roll once again. I peeked over the edge of the slide like the creep I was and watched Mike skate in circles around the basketball court. His long black hair was covered by a beanie, but was still long enough to flow gracefully behind him. God, he was beautiful. Just as beautiful as I remembered. I missed him. You know what? Screw it, Iâm gonna talk to him, I thought. Iâm going to make things right between us. Against my better judgment, I stood up and made my way over to Mike.
He caught a glimpse of me in his peripheral vision and had to do a double take before jumping off his board to walk over to me. We both watched it roll away and fall off the pavement and into the grass before turning back to each other.
âWill,â he was the first to speak. It felt like a whole century had passed since Iâd last heard him say my name, and Iâd forgotten how much I loved hearing it.
âMike.â I looked up at Mike then, taking in the entirety of his appearance. He had dark circles under his eyes, and judging by his oily scalp, he looked like he hadnât showered in days.
âHow have you been?â he asked me. Typical Mike, I thought, always wondering how Iâm doing. Then again, he was just asking a simple question found in most conversations, I was nothing special.
âIâm doing alright,â I replied, shoving my hands into my jean pockets. âHow are you?â
âDo you really want to know the answer to that?â
Heâs been like this since August, so⊠whatever you did must have really fucked him up.
â... Not particularly, no.â
We stood there for a few seconds in silence, unsure of what to say. I decided to speak first this time around. âSo⊠how are things in Indy?â
Mike scoffed then, closing his eyes tightly in frustration. âYou know, the least you can do is fucking apologize.â He was right; Iâd left things on a horrible note, and had yet to mention anything about our fight.
âI know, Mike, Iâm sââ
âNo,â Mike cut me off, his gaze hardening. âYouâre only sorry because I prompted it.â
âSays the one who expected me to just accept the fact that he was in love with me and not question his integrity after finding twenty six love letters in his bedroom.â
âYou shouldnât have read those.â
âYou shouldnât have left them out!â
âWell, I was a fucking dumbass, what else is new?â
âWell, so am I, then, because I had finally convinced myself that you didnât love me, just for you to go and turn my whole world upside down!â Neither of us even noticed or reacted to the unintentional pun.
âI do love you, Will,â Mikeâs voice softened as it always did, and he took a step closer to me as he spoke. âI do. What do I have to do to make you believe me?â
âKiss me,â I replied.Â
Mike groaned at that, rolling his eyes as he threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. âWhat do you mean, kiss me? I did kiss you that day, and youââ
âBut you only did it because I prompted it,â I shot Mikeâs words right back at him, and he could only blink. âIf you really love me, youâll prove it to me by kissing me for real. No leading me on and letting me down. No goddamn love letters. Just⊠kiss me.â
He took a deep breath then, his eyes meeting mine once again and his expression turning into a determined resolve. âYou want me to kiss you for real?â Mike whispered, closing the remaining distance between us. âIâll show you real.â
The sound of Mikeâs skateboard violently smacking against the pavement brought me back to reality. I was still hidden behind the slide. I ran my hands over my face, rubbing my fingertips against the corners of my eyes. I was so exhausted that my imagination had gone off the rails.
I needed to go get some sleep. But Mike was in the way of my route home, and I was not prepared to pass him on my bike just to get stopped and forced to have an awkward, real-life encounter with him. What if I just⊠took the next street over? I thought to myself. That could work. But⊠where did I leave my⊠bike. My bike rested on its side against the swingset, clear on the other side of the park. Iâd forgotten how far Iâd wandered away from it, and wondered briefly how Mike couldnât have seen it yet. I glanced back over to the basketball court at⊠Mike. Who wasnât there.
âYou stalking me, Byers?â I heard from above me, and even though my mind had deducted that that he had spotted me behind the slide, my heart still jumped at the sight of Mike looming over me. I stood up, brushing the accumulated woodchips off my knees from kneeling.
âYou caught me, Wheeler,â I chuckled, and Mike smiled back.
âHow have you been?â he asked me. Typical Mike, I thought, always wondering how Iâm doing. Then again, he was just asking a simple question found in most conversations, I was nothing special.
âIâm doing alright,â I replied, shoving my hands into my jean pockets. âHow are you?â
âDo you really want to know the answer to that?â
Heâs been like this since August, so⊠whatever you did must have really fucked him up.
âIâm sorry,â I told him, rocking back and forth on my feet a few times. âAll of this is my fault. Itâs my fault youâre like this.â
âYeah. It kind of is.â
âI shouldnât have blown up on you like that. If I hadnât, then maybe all of this could have beenâŠâ I faltered, and Mike shook his head.
âThere was no avoiding it, Will,â he said. âI went about it all wrong. I shouldnât have kissed you like that. I should have taken the time to explain to youââ
âBut you did explain, thatâs the thing,â I said. âI was just too caught up in my own anger and confusion to noticeââ
âI donât blame you for being angry and confused,â Mike told me, and I looked up to notice tears welling up in his eyes. âI was angry and confused at myself for my inability to tell you the truth about how I felt. It scared the shit out of me.â
I couldnât help but reach up then, resting my hand against his cheek and swiping the tears away. He let out a small sniffle and lifted his eyes from the ground to meet mine. They say that the eyes are windows to the soul; the pain in his eyes sent me right back to that day of our mutual heartbreak, and I couldnât take it anymore. I lifted my other hand to hold the other side of his face, and ran my thumbs over his cheeks once more before Iâ
Heard someone yell, âOw, fuck!â knocking me out of my daze of delusion once again. I looked up and saw that Mike had fallen off his board, and was laying on the pavement on his back, unmoving. For a moment, I feared that heâd knocked himself out, but relief flooded my body when I saw him reach his hands up to his head and run his fingers through his hair with a groan. He didnât get up, though, so I hesitantly rose from my position on the ground and approached Mike slowly. He noticed my shadow and whipped his head in my direction, eyes wide. He looked stupified, unable to find the words to say to me. Not like I could have done any better.
I knelt down next to him, and couldnât help it when my breath hitched. Mike looked gorgeous from this angle, in the moonlight, below me. I felt something primal within myself awaken, letting a low noise escape my throat as I let my body take over. I crawled a bit closer to Mike, reading his expression for any stop signs. And then⊠I pounced.
A shiver went down my spine, shaking me out of my hopefully last scenario. I wasnât sure how much time had passed, but my knees were starting to hurt from crouching behind the slide. I pulled my hands off the rail of the slide to rub my freezing cold palms together.
âGoddamnit!â Mike shouted at the night sky, which had turned a light grey with the snow that had begun to fall over the park. I blinked a few stray snowflakes out of my eyes and pulled my hood up, preparing to sprint across the park, grab my bike, and go. All the cardio training Iâd done over the past semester had to have been done for a purpose. And this was it.
I took a few deep breaths, about to make a run for it, when I heard a high pitched whine come from the direction of the basketball court. I took one last glance over to Mike, who was reaching into his pocket and pulling out⊠was that a flask? My suspicions were confirmed when he unscrewed the top and tipped his head all the way back as he proceeded to chug the whole thing in a few seconds. Oh god.
Heâs been like this since August, so⊠whatever you did must have really fucked him up.
-
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#byler#byler fanfic#byler fic#byler tumblr#mike wheeler#will byers#will x mike#mike x will#stranger things#stranger things fic#ntwdt1#ntwdt2
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I came across an anon of yours saying that ashford theory has been 'debunked' because they and a lot of other people believe george created Harry Hardyng as replacement of Robert Arryn for scrapping the five year gap.
First of all, I would want to know what purpose only Harry could achieve in Sansa's story that Robert couldn't because of younger age, that George felt the need to create a considerably older suitor? I understand all the bnfs get boners at the idea of Sansa getting married to Harry and staying in the Vale forever, but again the same could've been achieved with Robert too. Its not like Tommen isn't his age and not married to Margaery. In actuality, normal people know Harry is dying because of 1) the Young moniker and 2) Sansa's wish of him falling, and again Robert could've died in his place easily too, to 'free' Sansa.
And if the purpose of his creation in event of not following the five year plan, wasn't an older betrothed/husband for Sansa, what was it?
Problem with the fandom is that they put too much emphasis and focus on things we know nothing about. Like when or how George decided to scrap the five year gap plan. Its pure speculation that it was between 2000 and 2005. And it is even more speculation that he had no plans to introduce Harry Hardyng before scrapping it, or that he was a last resort (which as I showed, there was no need of, as Robert, even five years younger, fulfills those purposes). Its the same with the original outline.
And there is too little focus on the actual canon, which is that Hardyng is a minor house with no other mention except in the Hedge Knight. Even if George DID create someone last minute, it is TOO much of a coincidence it just happened to be a Hardyng and that Sansa wishes for him to have an accident with his horse in the tourney like Humfrey (his counterpart) did in the Ashford tourney. In her latest chapter in 2015. Even if he did not intend it to be intentional, he sure seems to be retconning it. This is not even considering that all the other champions also share parallels with their Ashford counterparts:
Lyonel=Lion=Joffrey; Baratheon and Lannister champions defeat the maiden's brothers; Willas Tyrell is straight up called another Leo Tyrell; Valarr's father was named after Baelor the Blessed=Rhaegar was called another Baelor the Blessed. He himself is called a black prince with a white guardian=Jon.
George must be blind if he did not see any of this while writing it because one or two names similar, I can accept as coincidences, but ALL the champions have parallels with Sansa's suitors.
Well said, anon.
Let's address this head-on: the biggest problem with the Ashford theory is that the first person to discover it made a mess of it. Now, they wander the internet, asserting authority and attempting to undermine it, simply because they disagree with its clear conclusion.
The theory was so thoroughly botched that people think it can easily be tossed aside due to a technicality involving Robert Arryn or the tournament's disruption. As if that could ever be enough to dismiss the abundance of other similarities, many of which they're not even aware of.
Can you imagine the fandom insisting on any other theory being this airtight?
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Arcane x Game of Thrones crossover where Viktor is isekaied into Viserys, brother of Daenerys, Mother of Dragons, body
He wakes up on a house in Bravos with these memories that make zero sense to him but the euphoria of functioning lungs are distracting him from analyzing it to much
There is an old man there. He calls him prince. The old man is dying and the servants have a greed in their eyes that Viktor knows well, he was seen it enough on the streets of Zaun
A hunger for more after years of scraps while in the shadows of prosperity
He could fight them, poison them even. The trouble such actions may bring to him would be worth for his sole survival in the long run. But he is not alone in here.
There is a girl. Not older than a toddler.
Dany. His new sister.
The choice is easy really. So there he goes, a staff made from one of the thicker branches of the lemon tree in the front yard (he misses his cane turned staff. Even with both legs functioning, he missed the weight in his hand. And, as the undercity had shown him, having something that you could use as a range weapon was always a good thing) in the dead of the night to steal as much food and coin he can carry with him
He takes one of the fabrics with him so he can wrap it around the tiny girl that is now his responsibility. He wraps her to his back, her tiny body flush against him. Alive, close, protected.
She nuzzles closer to his neck, her tiny hands on his shoulders.
He knows her for only a day and he would destroy the world for her
When he goes back to his world (because he would find a way back) he would be taking her with him
A staff, a purse of coins, a bag with food and a toddler on his back
Thatâs how the first assassin sent by King Robert finds them
Thatâs the last thing said assassin sees before the young prince stabs him, hits him in the head with the staff and drops him in the river
Viktor grew up in Zaun. An assassin had to do way better than that if they wanted to off him. Especially because he was fighting for someone besides himself
For himself ? He would survive.
For Dany? He would thrive!
#game of thrones#arcane#viktor arcane#daenerys targaryen#viserys iii targaryen#Viserys brother of Daenerys#in this reality they just straight up steal the eggs from Ilirio#are you really going to look me in the eye and tell me that Viktor would sell his 13 year old sister for an army???#for a throne that he doesnât give a shit about???#the streets of Essos know the him as the Ruthless Prince#he will bite you#Vikserys to Robert: you think you funny? Iâm about to be hilarious *invents gun powder and fire arms*#No one knows what the fuck guns are so they all think that Prince Viserys can kill a man by pointing his fingers at a man and he will die#Dany: brother I want to change the world for the better as queen#Vikserys: sick take this *hands her a gun*#Robert is shitting himself back in Westeros because a prince that kills all his assassins in increasingly looney tunes ways#is a demon he was not ready for#NOW there surely is more loyalist because they could get behind such resourceful ruler#especially after he made a fortune with his inventions for the betterment of the life in Essos#too bad he doesnât want no crown#Dany is the one he is backing for the throne. Him? if he doesnât find a way back he will find a little run the castle and live there#inventing#dating hot smiths that donât remind him of Jayce AT ALL WHO SAID THAT#they find an egg that clearly a dragon egg but is definitely smaller than Danyâs#this is how Rio can still live#so dany has three full dragons and Vik has one purple axolotle that he loves very much and takes naps on#Dany loves her weird hermit feral gay brother#she will cut a bitch that disrespects him#She calls him V
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Emma is right, Daemon groomed his niece. Itâs a known tactic of predators to show their marks pornography before assaulting them (dragging the young Rhaenyra through the brothel first)âŠIâm sure he never thought she would go and seduce Criston Cole, lmao!
But, in seriousness, it is still in effect now; how else would a Queenâs âconsortâ keep his head, much less his hand, after choking his Queen?
*EDIT 11/4/24*
GRRM already does make it a point to show that 13 yr old Dany getting impregnated, 15 year old Viserrra engaged to a man who could be her father and dying trying to live her last moments as a girl, AND Daemon messing w/Rhaenyra then getting the boot are all obviously bad things about this system--thus a critique of said political environments, but it's still does not mean Larra Rogare, Viserys I, Daemon, and a few others were necessarily bonafide "pedos" like Robert Baratheon, Craster, Walder Frey, or Aegon II bc...
it takes more than the presence of a marriage between 15 yr old and a 23 yr old or a mere relationship of such to rule one of them as an actual hand-rubbing "groomer" (although this particular label on Daemon fits more back in 111...he definitely was using her against Viserys) or a "pedo", bc of how marriages are an arranged affair AND these teens aren't as considered "adults" in ASOIAF--It's not a part of their conscious OR they were forced/socially pressured to marry
The boundaries are looser; again GRRM does criticize that, but he doesn't try to break away from the consequences of that by only writing characters who are closer in age fall in love or become closer or get into sexual relationships.
Example: He still has Dany have the much older and adult Daario as a lover so she can pursue her first self-determined relationship at her 15/16 years of age...which canonically she uses to heal even as she has her doubts about Daario's feelings for her. Perhaps he could have gotten her with one of her khalasar instead, like Jhoqo, but Dany is also still very much a teenager still and Daario was exciting and persistent when she wanted to feel desired. Daario is fine prostrating himself but not totally being her soldier like Jhoqo. Eventually, their relationship will not pan bc Daario's interest in her is still wrapped up more in her being a queen and she herself has the higher goal of freeing slaves, getting back her throne, later the Others, etc.--this doesn't mean that Daario wasn't a critical person in a particular point in her life or that she didn't love him. And all this is consequential to the sort of world she lives in and her particular circumstances.
*END OF EDIT*
Yes I can see where some people are coming from. A groomer do/would/could do that.
Grooming involves these:
physically or emotionally separate a victim from those protecting them and often seek out positions in which they have contact with minors
gaining the trust of a potential victim through gifts, attention, sharing âsecretsâ and other means to make them feel that they have a caring relationship and to train them to keep the relationship secret
will often start to touch a victim in ways that appear harmless, such as hugging, wrestling and tickling, and later escalate to increasingly more sexual contact, such as massages or showering together. Abusers may also show the victim pornography or discuss sexual topics with them, to introduce the idea of sexual contact
behaviors are not only used to gain a victimâs trust but often are used to create a trustworthy image and relationship with their family and community. Child and teen sexual abusers are often charming, kind, and helpful â exactly the type of behavior we value in friends and acquaintances
And show!Daemon does show her sexually exhibitive "content". He does turn the outing into a sexual "session" after she expressed frustrations with marriage to slowly coax her into engaging in sexual activity until he stops.
Here is the thing:
*EDIT 11/4/24* as grooming implies a primary objective to prey and I don't think that's that Daemon is trying to do so much as show her sex can be fun AND force Viserys to marry them *END OF EDIT*
Again, I do not take the choking scene at face value nor a lot of shit the show writers wrote not just for these two but Baela, Rhaena, Rhaenys, Criston, Alicent, even Viserys. Not enough for me to not be suspicious and questioning the entire story they present.
Still, too much of HotD feels "unreal", even worse to me and unworthy of really taking its characters at face value-- because:
this post
many of their own plot holes/logical inconsistencies that blow up the changes they made; some that could have been made sensical if they had written more for some characters or had more than 10 episode, had less time jump, did flashbacks, AND/OR had more hours in each episode--yes some of these are production problems or executive issues....doesn't mean that the story we're presented stops being inferior AND that some of the writers' choices weren't independently from their own brains...without an exec breathing down their necks (Condal/Hess/Sapochink's)
Baela and Rhaena are separated in the show and Corlys take the first one as a ward (doesn't happen nor would either Rhaenyra or Daemon allow that to happen without a fight, so we need to know how exactly this happened, bc Rhaenys still hates them for them supposedly killing Laenor AND the show makes as if Rhaena hasn't seen Rhaenys in a very long while or leaves the impression Rhaenyra is keeping her from Rhaenys when Rhaenys could very well get on Meleys and see Rhaena all she wants and Rhaena's boat trip to Driftmark is slower but still a relatively short distance...so why?
Daemon cruelty ignores or neglects Rhaena, and no amount of "he was disappointed" or "he was worried she'd experiences or of second son syndrome and he didn't know how to deal with that or help her out" for not having a dragon as a hatchling/in the cradle makes thia make sense when he, as the show states, is actually knowledgeable Abt dragons, Targs history, and bonds and shit, he'd know that MOST Targs bond with their dragons into their preteen, late teens and a few even into adulthood, like Viserys, himself, Aegon I, Aegon the Uncrowned, Maegor I, Laena....so how is this not an unnecessary and nonsensical attempt to asperge Daemon as a bad (more than he already was), really hypocritical dad who is not his suggested, daughter-affirming self as in the book?! And I pull this from how both Rhaena and Baela both became two of the most self possessed, confident, politically active women of their generation following a generation where Target women also enjoyed authority or prestige they previously did not without being conquerors?
Daemon was very loving and caring towards Laena in the canon. Unlike the show, he wrote a whole assed letter to Viserys asking him to accept him and Laena, dispense the exile order against him, so that Laena's twins (Baela and Rhaena) can grow in Driftmark. This is only after. A few months after the twins are in mind you. Meanwhile in the show, the girls are grown children of maybe 6-8, and Laena practically begs him to do the same and he ignores her and she tries to excuse his behavior to Rhaena!
While show!Rhaenyra is defiant even in that choking scene when she brings up how Viserys just never trusted Daemon with the prophecy, she is also made to be much more despondent and less...argumentative(?), more melancholic than what both GRRM's description of her to Amok AND the foreword of Dangerous Women anthology housing "The Princess and the Queen" shows. PLUS, how she very comfortably ignores, defies, gives up Daemon in the book as unlike an abuse victim does more than once.
Rhaenys is the total opposite of her self and they switched her and Daemon's attitudes or impressions of such in the show--Rhaenys wanted to immediately ambush KL with their dragons, Daemon is the one to practice caution.....AND BOTH OF THEM never denied that there would be some sort of battle or armed confrontation!
the choice to make the episode 1 tourney much more deadly than it actually needed to be
Aegon and Aemond, of all people, being allowed a more sympathetic writing and characterization when Daemon is written much worse than his suggested book self....they don't gaf or know much about real DV and how it develops,esp since physical DV doesn't just happen without the emotional and psychological steps of [and these don't all have to happen at the same time]: A) changes expectations or guidelines, thus keeping you guessing how to please them B) insists on spending all or the majority of your time together, cutting you off from friends and family, making fun of your interests in other activities C) constantly accuses you of sexual interactions with anyone in your life (friends, teachers, bosses, counselors, etc.). Accuses you of flirting; monitors how you look and what you wear D) pushes for instant closeness and does not allow relationship to grow at a pace that is comfortable to you [like, Partner praises you constantly and puts you on a pedestal. They want to live together immediately. Partner wants to care for your children and disciplines them early in a relationship (instead of honoring your role as their parent).] E) Partner expects others (and you) to live by their standards, yet he/she doesnât live by them. F) always focuses on their own wants and needs. They ignore your wishes. G) easily angered, has rapid mood swings, unpredictable behavior; anger is out of proportion to the incident H) stereotypical beliefs about gender roles; insults past partners with sexist language along with ideas of them being "bad" women I) doesnât accept responsibility for their actions
having Cole and Rhaenyra have sex so they could make her seem to be as close to predatory to Aegon, Cole more of a victim or completely helpless under her being a princess and he a Kingsuard (he isn't, not even in the show)
Laenor's male lover is not killed in a more believable setting of a tourney (in a publicly told, freak incident--this does not normalize constant death at medieval tourneys!) but Cole beats him out of clearly no cover of a tourney and licensed competition of arms, but at a wedding feast where Joffrey had guests rights....and Cole somehow escapes execution?! And we have a gay man treated worse than he was in canon, both Laenor AND Joffrey.
While people already do feel for him and understand his feelings, in the time jump of episode 6 Laenor looks less "sympathically selfish" (bc he is being selfish and he is trying to take advantage of his male privilege to go where he pleases) than if they had really developed that part of the reason why he wants to leave Rhaenyra behind is that he can't stay in the same space as his lovers killer, or have this open up a question of how much it figures into Laenor's own measure of his masculinity. How much does the allure of being a warrior/knight in a far off land have in measure to do with his helplessness or "failure" in Joffrey's death and how he approaches fatherhood?
AGAIN, show!Daemon IS an DV abuser, and that is my problem!!!! Because it isn't true of canon!!!--not for his sake necessarily but for Rhaenyra, his daughters, and their sons' sake and narrative roles in ASoIaF/pre-Daenerys. And it is a part of the writing Rhaenyra to be much less willing to defend herself for the sake of her father's, Aegon's, legacy // co opt Daenerys' narrative characterization (there is a good reason why bkRhaenyra is Daenerys' opposite). This storyline punishes Rhaenyra for marrying Daemon, when it was actually one of her better decisions AND she had a lot of power and authority over Daemon [@rhaenin-time HERE].
Also, check out these two posts: HERE and HERE
All of which is meant to fit into the show's "women are peace keepers of their inherently violent men" theme. Their anti-militaristic, anti-self focused women agenda. Their implication that you should not root for a woman if she uses war to defend herself or to gain polt all advantage and prestige either similar to or in defense of men doing the same. All to diminish how self assured BK!Rhaenyra was not just in her non-warrior, "high-femme" accepting but still wanting power self. The way they use Aegons prophecy is not just to give their Rhaenyra a sense of responsibility to her definition of leadership--which is a Daenerys thing, btw. Comparatively, BK!Rhaenyra might have been self focused, but at least she always stood up for herself, seems to always address others' confrontation head on, expressed her disdain (even in feast before Viserys dies), when others took or denigrated her for her gender. There was a way to show this without her completely demoralized, without her kids being in danger, without Daemon's presence.
There are more but these are my biggest reasons, but not my only one and I forgot something I noticed abt Laenor.....might add it later. So as I showed how the writing for this show is disingenuous and untrustworthy....
The "effect" that I more care about is now that this is the story that most audiences around the world will understand of the Dance and Rhaenyra.
Which tbh, GRRM already fumbled by making Rhaenyra too distant from her own war when he could have gone many routes that force the F&B writers to have to record stuff she hypothetically could have done during the war bc there'd be so many witnesses to her doing such. Of course this is her story; GRRM set the ground for it by not doing as an anon says:
GRRM in part wrote Rhaenyra as a litmus test for the readersâs misogyny but in my opinion it falls flat because he gets caught up in doing that and forgets to give Rhaenyra some dignity or respect as an individual character. And itâs honestly the same issue he has in the main series. Pathologizing motherhood in particular, esp. in relation to women who are also in politics while being mothers. Fathers are never âtoo mad with griefâ to rule competently or make good decisions; only mothers are.
#asoiaf asks to me#rhaenyra and daemon#emma d'arcy#hotd brothel scene#hotd episode 4#daemyra#asoiaf shipping#canon shipping#hotd ships#daemon targaryen#rhaenyra targaryen#hotd featurette#asoiaf writing#fire and blood writing#fire and blood
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The Ending
Last Morpheus x Hob!Reader. A bit hard to read, and with spoilers from the comics, careful.Â
Y/N Y/L/N couldn't die.
Not if she didn't want to.
Lord Morpheus repeated this to himself over and over as he continued to search for her everywhere. He refused to think that his sister might have changed her mind or that his immortal lover might have decided to leave without telling him.
Something else must have happened, and though it might be horrible, Dream told himself that he would find her, that she would be alive, and that he would help her get better, for as long as necessary.
She had told him about her long life, he had seen some of her nightmares. Y/N had experienced a lot of things, she was strong, smart. Everything would end well.
Her disappearance dated back to a few days now. If he hadn't learned to control his rage, Lord Morpheus would have punished Johanna Constantine for causing all this trouble. She had come to seek the help of Y/N and Hob for a dangerous mission, thinking that it would be better to be accompanied by people who could not die.
There are fates worse than death, Dream had once told Robert. You can be injured or captured.
It had happened to him soon after, like a premonition, and now Y/N might be stuck somewhere. Maybe she was being tortured, and if he didn't move fast enough, if she lost hope, then she might call his sister to end her suffering.
But no, she couldn't die, he refused that.
Despite his best efforts, traveling the waking world and dreams, dispatching Matthew and his most loyal subjects, he was unable to find her.
The Hecate didn't give him any help, answering with riddles and mocking him. Lost, he did something he hadn't even thought of doing when he was captured : he called his family. It wasn't as helpful as he would have hoped.
As always, Destiny couldn't do anything, saying whatever was supposed to happen would happen.Â
Death only reassured him, promising him that Y/N had not contacted her, and that if she did, she would take him with her to save his beloved. She looked strange, but said nothing.Â
Destruction didn't answer.
 The twins were a little surprised by his request, savoring this moment, happy to see him so weak in their domains, desperate and in love.
   "We'd be willing to help you just because we pity you and you finally seem to realize you're no better than us..." Desire began.
   "... But we can't do anything for you. An ancient magic seems to have taken your lover." continued Despair. "She's too far from us. Sorry."
It was out of sheer politeness, knowing how susceptible she could be, that Dream went to Delirium. Poor Delirium, his youngest sister would probably not achieve more than the others had already done.
She jumped up when she saw him, saying that she had missed him, before saying a lot of nonsense, but listening all the same to the reason for his coming. Delirium looked serious for a moment, thinking hard, before jumping up again.
   "I dON't KnOw wheRe Y/N Is. BUt I knOw whO I CAn Ask !"
   "Come find me if your friend brings news." sighed Morpheus who wasn't really listening.
   "He'S nOt MY fRIenD, BUt OkAY !"
A few hours later, someone showed up at the gate of the realm, and Matthew flew as quickly as possible to his master to tell him that Y/N had returned.
In an instant, Dream appeared beside her, hugging her, asking her if she was hurt, wiping the tears from her cheeks, touching her bloody hands.
   "... I'm fine." she whispered without looking at him.
   "Obviously not. If those who hurt you are not dead yet, I will find them and lock them in an eternal nightmare."
   "Forget it, Morpheus. I don't want to talk about it."
   "I cannot leave unpunished those who have dared..."
   "Nobody hurt me." Y/N said more firmly, but still avoiding his gaze. "It's not my blood. I lost myself, in limbos. It was impossible to find my way, I was alone, and I was afraid of arriving in hell, or of dying without doing it on purpose. Then he... I do not want to talk about it."
   "He ? Who is he ?"
Y/N initially refused to answer, continuing to cry, before falling to her knees and beginning to ask his forgiveness, as if she had committed a crime. The pleas came next, her love saying that she would understand that he hated her, that he never wanted to see her again, but that she had no choice. She was shaking, as if she was afraid of him.
   "He asked me... He was so tired, so kind. His voice... His voice..." she sobbed, taking Morpheus's hands. "He had such a beautiful voice."
Then Dream understood. And after having focused his attention only on Y/N, he contemplated the universe and whispered the name of his son who was no longer there. That was what his sister had hidden from him. What his brother had meant.
Y/N was alive, and Orpheus was dead.
Delirium had had the idea of going to ask her nephew for help. She had never thought of it before, but he was a oracle, so he knew everything, and he didn't have to keep quiet like their big brother. She wanted to ask him where her dear other brother Destruction was, but Orpheus had smiled, saying that his uncle didn't want to be found, that there was more important matters to deal with at the moment, and that he wouldn't be here afterwards.
Using his link with the Limbos where he had lost Eurycype, he had found Y/N and he had guided her to the exit. He had, however, asked her for a favor.
   "He said he wanted to join his wife. He couldn't stay like that anymore. He was already dead, or almost. He was staying for his mother, and you, even if he was convinced that you didn't love him anymore and that you would never come back to see him. He would have wanted to see you, and at the same time, he was afraid. Afraid that you would reject him, or that you would accept his request. He knew the rules, he knew what he would happen to you if you released him, so... He asked me. I didn't want to do it. I said there had to be a solution. I didn't want you to hate me."
   "My love..."
   "He said it would be fine. That you would understand. He sang to calm me down. A lullaby you made for him. It was beautiful. Oh, Morpheus, it was beautiful. Forgive me."
Unable to speak, he took her in his arms. His son was right, he didn't hate Y/N. He would never hate her, he was glad she was back, that she wasn't hurt. Yes, Orpheus was long dead, though none of them wanted to accept it.
   "My love..." he whispered again, continuing to rock her, trying to calm her crying, as he had done with this little baby that Calliope had given him. "There is nothing to forgive. You granted his wish, you did nothing wrong. You gave my child peace, something I could never have done. I wanted him to live, I was not here for him. At least he's with his wife now. He's happy."
Y/N continued to cry and apologize for several hours, hugging him and letting him kiss her until she was too exhausted to move.
It was not necessary to warn anyone. Once his partner was calmer, although still feeling guilty despite all his reassuring words, the family came.
Morpheus was afraid that they would be violent towards Y/N, that they would insult her, curse her, try to kill her.
The meeting was very strange.
Destiny didn't speak much, only repeating that what had to happen had happened. He quickly added that the other option would have been difficult, for everyone. Death hugged his brother, then Y/N, without saying anything, because it was not necessary. Destruction did not come.
The three youngest were the most surprising. Very serious, very solemn. Despair offered her condolences. Delirium apologized if she had made a mistake. Desire remained in a corner. It wasn't time for teasing, but none of them were mad at Y/N. Their nephew had been on the borders of their domains for too long, it was good that he was free.
Calliope arrived last, calm and serene, but with tears streaming down her cheeks. By stupid reflex, Morpheus stood in front of Y/N, but the muse smiled sadly at him, before passing and taking his companion's hand.
   "Thank you." she said. "Thank you for helping my son."
Not considering that she had helped him, Y/N just nodded trying not to cry again. She couldn't, and Morpheus took her back to their room as soon as everyone had left.
Of course, there remained the dreams and nightmares, curious and worried, who wanted to check that everything was alright for their creator, but also for his lover. They all adored Y/N, they didn't like to see her so sad, but above all, they wondered if their master might not blame her for what had happened.
   "I do not understand what you mean."
   "Well... She... She killed your son, boss." muttered the raven as if he had just said an insult. "Yeah, he asked her, and she's sorry, and I understand, but⊠You might be upset, and angry."
   "I am not."
   "Not even a little ?"
   "I'm not saying that the loss of my son doesn't cause me any pain. But Y/N is safe and sound thanks to him, and I've only felt joy since her return." he said, stroking the hair of the immortal, who was starting to wake up. "Excuse me, Matthew, but I don't want to leave her alone during this moment. I'll join her in the Waking World, tell Lucienne to watch over the realm while I'm gone."
   "Yes, boss. I'm sorry."
   "Don't be. If anyone is responsible, it's me. I had minimized my son's suffering. If Y/N had died today... Maybe I would have gone to hell for her. My sister would have laughed at me, saying that I was selfish. I could have helped him, I didn't. My brother is right, things happened as they were supposed to , and now I have to follow my own advice. Accept that he's gone, and savor every moment with Y/N, my Y/N, that he brought back to me."
The raven refrained from answering. He wasn't really satisfied, but he couldn't do anything. It wasn't a nice ending, like in the fairy tales, but it wasn't a bad ending either. Life like stories, their master well knew, did not always have happy endings. They had endings. And if in his Y/N was at his side, that was enough.
#Sandman#dream of the endless#dream of the endless x reader#dream of the endless imagine#dream of the endless fanfiction#morpheus#morpheus x reader#morpheus fanfiction#morpheus imagine
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Viserys and Robert are two characters we only see in A Game of Thrones. They are kings and pretenders set against each other, but they somehow share things in common.
We see Viserys through the eyes of his sister Daenerys and we see Robert through the eyes of his foster brother Ned, the people who would be most generous in their view towards them, and through them, Viserys and Robert by their descriptions given would both be fantasy protagonists on paper.
Fifteen years past, when they had ridden forth to win a throne, the Lord of Storm's End had been clean-shaven, clear-eyed, and muscled like a maiden's fantasy. Six and a half feet tall, he towered over lesser men, and when he donned his armor and the great antlered helmet of his House, he became a veritable giant. He'd had a giant's strength too, his weapon of choice a spiked iron warhammer that Ned could scarcely lift. In those days, the smell of leather and blood had clung to him like perfume. . . . Ned had loved her with all his heart. Robert had loved her even more. She was to have been his bride. -AGOT, Eddard I
Robert is the trope of the reluctant monarch, someone who was originally living a carefree life in the country, but then finds himself forced to claim the throne not because he wants it, but because the current king is a tyrant and he takes the throne to avoid the lesser evil. He was a strong warrior, who fought to recover his bride who was abducted and kept in a tower, and killed the black knight in battle who took her. He also won over former enemies and turned them into friends with his mercy and charm.
Yet sometimes Dany would picture the way it had been, so often had her brother told her the stories. The midnight flight to Dragonstone, moonlight shimmering on the ship's black sails. Her brother Rhaegar battling the Usurper in the bloody waters of the Trident and dying for the woman he loved. The sack of King's Landing by the ones Viserys called the Usurper's dogs, the lords Lannister and Stark. Princess Elia of Dorne pleading for mercy as Rhaegar's heir was ripped from her breast and murdered before her eyes. The polished skulls of the last dragons staring down sightlessly from the walls of the throne room while the Kingslayer opened Father's throat with a golden sword. . . . The realm will rise for its rightful king. Tyrell, Redwyne, Darry, Greyjoy, they have no more love for the Usurper than I do. The Dornishmen burn to avenge Elia and her children. And the smallfolk will be with us. They cry out for their king." He looked at Illyrio anxiously. "They do, don't they?" "They are your people, and they love you well," Magister Illyrio said amiably. "In holdfasts all across the realm, men lift secret toasts to your health while women sew dragon banners and hide them against the day of your return from across the water." -AGOT, Daenerys I
Viserys is the trope of the young exiled prince, his royal father was murdered, his family overthrown by a usurper and he is on a quest to regain the throne. His brother's family is murdered and even his mother passes. Even Rhaegar is given a romantic flair of being a noble knight "dying for the woman he loved."
However, Viserys's story is marred by the fact that the Usurper and his dogs were actually justified in overthrowing his father Aerys II and Robert turns out to be a better king than the one he overthrew. In Robert's case, it turns out his betrothed never wanted him and went with the black knight willingly. His allies also engaged in horrific war crimes like Elia's rape-murder and the murder of her two kids.
"My brother will never take back the Seven Kingdoms," Dany said. She had known that for a long time, she realized. She had known it all her life. Only she had never let herself say the words, even in a whisper, but now she said them for Jorah Mormont and all the world to hear. Ser Jorah gave her a measuring look. "You think not." "He could not lead an army even if my lord husband gave him one," Dany said. "He has no coin and the only knight who follows him reviles him as less than a snake. The Dothraki make mock of his weakness. He will never take us home." -AGOT, Daenerys III "You are the King's Hand, Lord Stark. You will do as I command you, or I'll find me a Hand who will." "I wish him every success." Ned unfastened the heavy clasp that clutched at the folds of his cloak, the ornate silver hand that was his badge of office. He laid it on the table in front of the king, saddened by the memory of the man who had pinned it on him, the friend he had loved. "I thought you a better man than this, Robert. I thought we had made a nobler king." -AGOT, Eddard VIII
Martin deconstructs the trope further as both protagonists through whom we largely see the two figures come to realize that both of them are unfit for the crown. Daenerys realizes that Viserys is never retaking the Iron Throne, being weak, incompetent and foolish. Ned becomes disillusioned coming to the sober realization that it turns out Robert, the guy who didn't want the throne in the first place ends up being a lazy king not very active in ruling and administration, nor is he as noble as Ned thought he would be.
They both end up dying by the end of A Game of Thrones, bringing about their destruction through their own flaws. Viserys is killed after he threatens the khal's pregnant wife and sister he abused with a sword over his thwarted entitlement to both the crown from Drogo and Daenerys. Robert is killed in his arrogance hunting a boar while refusing any assistance, and by the wife he isolated and abused. Both of them were also pretty drunk and arrogant (with the former influencing the latter) during those actions.
In a fit of irony, Viserys and Robert were both miserable men with Viserys miserable over not having the Iron Throne while Robert was miserable because he had it. Viserys wished to be in Robert's position as the king sitting on the Iron Throne while Robert wished he was in Viserys's position of living in the Free Cities, free of any duties or obligations and able to pursue his own path.
Viserys's sister Daenerys ends up being the textbook exiled prince even though she was a princess, and does more in two years than Viserys did in his entire lifetime by hatching dragon eggs, and securing a crown and a kingdom. She has the wits and resourcefulness that he lacked as well as tries to fit the ideal image of a Good King/Queen, freeing millions from slavery. Ned himself ends up fitting the reluctant monarch trope despite never wearing a crown, being the reluctant Lord of Winterfell ruling over his kingdom of the North. He proves to be an honorable man and adheres to his ideal of justice, becoming paternalism personified.
In the end, Viserys and Robert proved they were never the main characters of the story, just sad men who pursued things that resulted in their own self-destruction.
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Terrible Fic Idea #52: Targaryen Restoration, but make it magical
I have approximately a thousand and one thoughts about Brynden Rivers. This is less to do with his position as The Three-Eyed Raven and more to do with all he accomplished before becoming part of a tree - becoming Hand of the King, playing a key role in defeating three Blackfyre Rebellions; becoming Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. In addition to being a master of realpolitik, he is an example of everything Jon Snow could have become in a world where Rhaegar won.
So, naturally, my mind took all the things I love about Bloodraven, mixed in a little TH White, and came up with: What if Brynden Rivers got to be House Targaryen's Merlin - and its King Arthur?
Aka: The Shiera Snowbird Fic
Just imagine it:
Everything in Robert's Rebellion happens as per canon - save Rhaegar gets his Visenya. Or, more accurately, his Shiera, as Lyanna's daughter is born with all of her mother's beauty and a pair of mismatched eyes: one lilac, one dove grey.
Shiera Snow, as she is called, is raised as Ned Stark's bastard in Winterfell. Like her namesake, she becomes a great reader, found more often in the company of the Maester than any of her half-siblings, and by the time of Jon Arryn's death there are rumors she has become a sorceress of the blackest arts.
These rumors are fueled in part by Lady Catelyn, who sees Shiera's great beauty and fears she will use it to seduce her way into Robb's inheritance, and in part because of Shiera herself, who seeks out the Witches of the Wolfswood and keeps no gods.
The truth is rather different - Shiera is a budding greenseer, haunted by dreams she can't explain - dreams of the Long Night and an albino man with a red birthmark crying out to her for help. In her search for explanations, she's dived further into the esoteric than any in the North have in years but found none of the answers she seeks.
When Ned goes south, Shiera heads north, eventually crossing the Wall and reaching the cave of the three-eyed raven. She rescues a surprisingly youthful Brynden Rivers from the roots of weirwood trees and destroys the Children of the Forest who were keeping him hostage, using the magic of his Blackwood and Targaryen blood to hasten the return of the Others and the destruction of mankind.
While canon proceeds elsewhere - Ned is executed, the War of Five Kings rages, Daenerys becomes the Mother of Dragons - Brynden teaches Shiera the secrets of sorcery and reveals her Targaryen ancestry. Together they work to ensure the success of Dany and Young Griff's actions in Essos - and the downfall of their enemies in Westeros.
Dany and Young Griff - who truly is Aegon VI - join forces, wed, and reconquer most of Westeros, which is too divided to stand against them.
Eventually Dany and Aegon make their way North to determine why no word has been heard from the Kingdom since a single bloodied missive was sent to King's Landing by the Boltons some years before - and why no messengers who pass The Neck return alive. They and their armies learn that the Wall has fallen and the Others have overrun most The North.
They're almost equally surprised to find Bloodraven and Shiera - by this point called Snowbird for the snow buntings she wargs into - leading a group of survivors in the ruins of Winterfell.
An extended War for the Dawn sequence follows, with Aegon VI proving to be Azor Ahai reborn, Dany agreeing to die so that Lightbringer can be reforged, and Aegon dying in battle with the Night's King.
Brynden and Shiera, whose magic was instrumental in defeating the Others, are now the last of Targaryen blood left alive. Only they can control the dragons Dany brought into the world. They are crowned King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms somewhat against their own desires, but well aware that the civil war that would follow if they refused would decimate an already destroyed realm.
What follows shouldn't quite be a golden age, but should be an age of great renewal and rebirth - a Renaissance, if the Renaissance included the return of magic.
Bonuses include: 1) Everything about Shiera Snowbird echoing Shiera Seastar, intentionally or unintentionally, with at least half the accusations of sorcery against her in her youth coming more from male fear of an educated woman and female jealousy of her beauty; 2) Unlike everyone else, Bloodraven should find only surface similarities between his half-sister and great-niece, and be repeatedly heard to say they are very different people; 3) Brynden and Shiera's relationship starting very much on mentor-mentee footing, which slowly evolves into friendship and true respect. The romance between them should be very late to the game and only come after Brynden realizes that the relationship he had with Shiera Seastar was deeply unhealthy; 4) As much magic as can be shoehorned into the world, with more magic being capable the more people believe - and the stronger Dany's dragons become; and 5) The triumph of practical, pragmatic politics over all else.
And that's all I have for this plot bunny. As always, feel free to adopt this bun, just link back if you ever do anything with it.
Other Jon Snow Headcanons: Aelor the Accursed | Aegon the Adopted | Aegon the Undying | Aegon the Unyielding | Aemon the Adventurous | Baelor the Brave | Daemon the Destroyer | Daena the Dreamer | Daeron the Desired | Dyanna the Defiant | Jon Whitefyre | King of the Ashes | Lady Arryn | Lady Baratheon | Lady Lannister | Lady Stark | Lord of the Dance | Prince Consort | Prince of Summerhall | Queen Mother | Rhaegar the Righteous | River Queen | Shiera Snowbird
More Terrible Fic Ideas
#plot bunny#fic ideas#game of thrones#a song of ice and fire#female jon snow#jon snow#jon snow is a targaryen#brynden rivers#brynden x shiera#bloodraven#daenerys targeryan#aegon vi targaryen#house targaryen#long night#white walkers#targaryen dynasty#return of magic#azor ahai#three eyed raven#got#asoiaf
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Earth 66
1) What are the Young Titans and New YJâs own worst nightmares?
2) Building in Question 1, how do they cope with that night terror and try going back to bed, thatâs if they can and have to stay up all night?
3) If Robin!Jake was sick and couldnât patrol that night but Marâi was away at Tamaran for that night, would Chris and/or Jon take over as Robin for him?
4) Did Jonâs pet dog Ranger ever go on adventures with his owner/friend the way Krypto does with Conner and Chris?
5) speaking of whom, how does Ranger get along with the rest of Jonâs team?
Good questions @paladin-of-nerd-fandom65 :D
1:
Jake: seeing his family die, bludhaven being destroyed, Robert turning evil.
Marâi: boyfriend Chris dying, seeing herself & mom getting (ahem) âphysicalâ by others, love oneâs dying.
Robert: seeing his dads car on fire, with him & his half-sister coming out of the wreck zombified & buring
Irey: seeing her family get killed by Zoom by being too slow.
Jai: seeing the error screen when playing games XD kidding (sort of ;p) I say being powerless & slow watching his family zoom on by.
Lian: having a building crush on her
Cerdian: hmmm a say a group of whale hunters attacking him with harpoons (đ€·đ»ââïž)
Jon Kent: seeing the county he grew up in destroyed, his favorite tree getting set on fire, family dying, & Damian turning into a evil vampire.
Damian: being told by his family that he is worthless
Hunter: seeing his family die, paradise island being destroyed, seeing his mom hurt & chained up by Ares.
Arthur: being hunted down by a demonic Black Manta (who in my universe is a crazy guy who sees everybody as Aquaman, yes everybody XD)
Connor: being replaced by a taller dark skin version of him (get it? No ok XD) I say getting shot at by hundreds of arrows while stuck on those target âsignsâ
Hector: seeing his parents die in combat or his dad killing his mom.
2: usually telling themselves itâs ok, itâs not gonna happened just a dream; maybe sneaking into their parents/siblings (if they got any) room to sleep with them.
3: sure hmmmmm I say Jon since him & Jake almost look alike, maybe Chris can use his dark powers to make his hair black. Jon & Chris would take pictures of themselves wearing a Robin outfit acting silly (making silly faces, putting their butts at the camera & doing anime poses) & show Jake to cheer him up for not going on patrol.
4: hmmmm yes & no, a bad guy who kidnaps dogs (not a dog catcher) & turns them into coats. Ranger was sadly one of these dogs who got kidnapped after Jon let ranger out to go to the bathroom, but thankfully Jon, as Superboy, tracked down the âDog Stealerâ & stops him & frees ranger & the other dogs.
5: pretty good, he loves sniffing the teams butts especially Arthurâs cause it smells like fish XD (kidding)
Jokes aside Ranger loves Jonâs team.
Note: in my universe Tamaran is gone like Krypton (cause Iâm not really a diehard StarFire fan knowing every lore detail) so Kory & her sister are âThe Last Daughters of Tamaranâ to make things interesting.
Ranger doesnât really exist in my universe, his role is replaced by Krypto, who is smart enough to act like a normal dog when Jon is growing up before his powers kicked in. (Not hate for ranger, I feel like he ainât that important, we only saw him in like two different books)
Thanks for the questions! Let me know if you got more! :D
#youngtitans#jake grayson#mari grayson#robert long#irey west#jai west#lian harper#cerdian#newyoungjustice#jon kent#damian wayne#hunter trevor#hunter prince#arthur curry jr.#connor lance queen#hector hall#hawkboy#superboy#supersons#wonder boy#robin#chris kent#conner kent#connor kent
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Part Twelve
It's not a long chapter, but it's definitely something! Thank you all for voting on my last poll!
Title: Once an Asshole, Always an Asshole
Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 2000+
Rating: R
Warnings: Tobacco, Swearing, sexual themes implied
Second Chance Romance!
Disclaimer: I do not own Bob Floyd, or anything related to Top Gun Maverick within this piece. Not Proof Read or BETA'd. All mistakes are my own.
I do not consent for my work to be edited, reposted, or translated.
You are responsible for your own media consumption. This is a work of fiction that may contain mature themes. If you are sensitive to those subjects, please do not read.
---
"Hey, Sunny, can I ask you something I'm probably not supposed to ask?"Â
The question came from Natasha as the pair sit on the back patio of the house, sipping on mimosas while they wait for Hangman to return Natasha's phone call about Sunny's duffle bag. The sun is high in the sky now, beating down on their legs, their upper bodies shaded with a large umbrella. Sunny ripples a bit at Natasha's question, knowing a line is going to be crossed. That fact doesn't bother Sunny all that much, rather it's the fact that she just knows it's going to be about Bob. Since Sunny unknowingly waltzed back into his life, his world, everything has been about him. Suddenly she misses the smell of tobacco.Â
"Just ask me, Nash," The words come with a sigh.Â
"It might be more than one question," Her answer comes after a beat of silence. One that was filled with a palpable, but not uncomfortable feeling. Natasha knows both Bob and Sunny are dying to talk about everything, to talk to each other, but neither is going to make that step any time soon. Sunny goes home in two weeks, and Natasha fears that if they don't sort things out now, they never will. So if she has to pry, goddamn-it she is going to pry.Â
Sunny doesn't respond, instead she just waves her hand like a white flag, conceding to Natasha's desire to talk about it.
There is a question that has been eating at Natasha since she found out that Sunny's Bobby and her Bob are the same person. The desire has all but grown since she saw Bob this morning, clad in jeans and that damn cowboy hat.Â
"Why Bob?" The question comes out too broad and almost wrong, and Natasha is adding on more words before Sunny can even open her mouth, "I don't mean why in his personality, I know Bob and I trust that man with my life, I mean, I want the down and dirty details. Is it the cowboy hat? It is, isn't is?"Â
The comment has Sunny laughing now, and she can feel the tension in her shoulders easing just a little. She lets her mind wander back to earlier that morning, to Bob, standing there like a stranger in his own kitchen. But, God, he looked just like home to her. She doesn't let her mind wander back further, knowing that if she does, she won't be able to stop thinking about Bob. From the way he smokes those stupid cigarillos and the crooked little smile of his. Hell, even his new birth control glasses make him look good.Â
Natasha watches quietly, a mug held tight between her hands, as a smile slowly grows over Sunny's face. She swears she can see her best friend's face literally brighten as she thinks, no doubt in Nat's mind that Sunny's mind is full of nothing but Bobby.Â
"You want the down and dirty? Are you sure? You do have to face him every day at work, at home, out with your friends," The words don't sway Natasha in the slightest. She knows that no matter what Sunny has to say about however hot she finds Bob, it's nothing compared to what she has heard from the rest of the squad. Natasha can describe women she has never met in painstaking detail because Rooster and Hangman like to talk over beers and pool at the Hard Deck.Â
"I want to know everything," Phoenix assures, a sly smirk peaking out over the coffee cup she has raised to her lips.Â
"Okay," There's an air of excitement to Sunny's voice and it makes Natasha buzz with excitement too. "Did I ever tell you about my prom?"Â
Sunny watches the blood drain from Natasha's face, an almost guilty look taking over her features. Natasha pulls her lip between her teeth, letting it go, only to suck it back in again. It's almost as if she is trying to decide what to say, but Sunny sees right through her hesitation, her biding time.
"Bobby did, didn't he?"
Natasha nods, her face falling along with her gaze. There is a bit of anxiety itching under Sunny's skin. She rubs over her exposed arms, the heat conducted from her palms doing nothing to calm the buzz in her bloodstream.Â
"Well, I am going to tell you the dirty stuff, okay? By the look on your face, it looks like you heard about the fight that got us here in the first place,"Â
"Yeah, I heard about the fight," There is guilt in her admission, even though she has nothing to be guilty about. It's not her drama, and it's nothing concerning her.Â
Sunny flips herself around in her chair, laying her upper body right in the direct rays of the sun. She pulls an arm behind her head, only to be poked in the arm by something hidden under the cushion. Sunny thrusts a hand under the cushion, retrieving a small box.Â
A fucking box of cigarillos.Â
And she laughs and laughs and laughs. Her head thrown back, eyes scrunched up tight. Her mouth is open wide and the loud laughter pours from her unapologetically. Natasha looks at her like she is crazy, until Sunny holds up the small box, the plastic wrap reflecting the sunlight. Natasha laughs too, but her giggles are more reserved, that is until she sees Sunny wiping tears from her eyes.Â
"What, is Bobby a fucking squirl now? Hiding his stash to come back to later? Keeping things safe for the cold harsh California winters?" Sunny gets the words out between gasps for air and the laughs flowing out of her lips. Natasha laughs harder now too, the women unable to look at each other as they calm down. When Sunny accidentally makes eye contact with Natasha for a brief second, it takes them another five minutes to calm down again.Â
"God, I miss his dumbass, I swear," There is a sadness in Sunny's tone, masked by light giggles. Carefully, Sunny peels back the cellophane wrapper on the carton of cigarillos, peeling it open like she is opening a century old book. The plastic crinkles and crunches in her hand as she balls it into her palm. She sticks the balled up cellophane under her thigh and it pokes into her soft skin. Sunny doesn't care, though, more focused on bringing the carton up to her nose to inhale the sweet, spicy scent of the tobacco.Â
The way Sunny relaxes at the smell is visible that Nat almost chuckles at her friend, but she doesn't. It's still too early to joke about it.Â
"I used to call Bob this awful nickname," Sunny watches Natasha's eyes widen over the carton of cigarillos she still has held up to her nose. "To be fair, he started calling me something awful first,"
"What did he call you?"Â
"He called me Douche," Nat's eyes get impossibly wider, "I went by Duchenne all of my life until I graduated high school. I get how Douche is an easy jab, I do, but my heart hurt a little every time he said it,"Â
"Please tell me you called him something better," There is so much anticipation in Natasha's voice that she is almost shaking. The smile that spreads over Sunny's face is almost diabolical, and Natasha can't help but love the sight.Â
"I called him Bertie," And that sends the pair into another laughter spiral.Â
"I am calling him that from this moment forward, just for hurting you! Bertie can fucking deal with it!" Conviction drips from her tone.Â
"No, Nash, don't call him that," Sunny shakes her head, her loose hair fluttering around as she does, "He doesn't deserve the torment,"Â
Natasha wants to fight Sunny on that thought. If there is anything Bob deserves after treating Sunny the way he did, ragging on her for years, throwing away their friendship only to make out with her and then fucking crush her right before graduation, it's a little torment. Natasha almost want's to beg her friend to reconsider, to let her rag on Bob a least a little bit, to give him a taste of his own medicine. But, Natasha can see the sadness in her eyes as she gently waves the carton of cigarillos under her nose.Â
"Give me those," Natasha makes a grabby gesture, leaning out further into the sunshine to snatch the carton from Sunny. She brings the carton up to her nose, taking in the scent. It causes her to wrinkle her nose, her features morphing into a look of disgust. She hands them back to Sunny, placing them in the woman's awaiting, outstretched hand. "Yeah, I don't get it,"Â
"If you were in love with him, you would," Sunny mumbles unintentionally, her focus on the swaying of the palm trees and the sun on her face. She doesn't notice the way her best friend's whole demeanor changes, the way she sits up a little bit straighter.Â
"I practically jumped him on Prom. I was drunk and god, he looked so good in his suit. It was black, it had these itty bitty little pin stripes that matched the gray of his dress shirt. Truthfully I don't now how I lasted so long without kissing him that night," Her words come out a little breathy as she reminisces.Â
"When I kissed him, I swear that was the start and the end of me. I know that's the sappy shit they say in books, but I knew right then, even through the drunken haze, that Bobby was gonna be it for me. I was absolutely fucked when I realized it too. The kisses were messy and I swear I could feel him everywhere, like he was some sort of electricity running through me, Nash,"
"He was laying on top of me, pinning my body down with the weight of his own. His hand cradled by face and I could feel the calloses of his hands scraping against my skin. He was so, so warm on top of me. And don't even get me started on how good it felt to have his tongue down my throat, because no man will ever kiss as good as Robert Floyd,"Â
Natasha is gob smacked at her best friend's words, taking them in as Sunny speaks them, gesturing lightly with her hands. She still holds the carton of cigarillos, the smell embedding itself in her nose, right where she wants it. It tangles inside of her lungs and it makes her feel warm, almost like Bobby did.Â
"He looked so damn good this morning, Natasha," Sunny giggle like a school girl, "Just like I remember him, but so much more of a man. When did he put on all that muscle? Because, Oh my God,"Â
The women sit in Sunny's words, their own image of Robert Floyd swirling around in their heads. They both have smiles on their faces, not that either would admit it. Natasha is plotting a way to get them trapped in the same room, so they would have to face each other and this goddamn stupid situation head on. Sunny can't help but think of the way Bob looked in his cowboy hat, all grown up and still as sexy as ever. She wants to feel his body weight on top of her again, to feel his callused hands graze over her skin. Goosebumps erupt on Sunny's skin, even under the warmth of the sun.Â
"Now can I say something I probably shouldn't say?" Natasha's voice is smaller, but there is a daring part of her that makes the words come out anyway. Sunny hums, her brain still on the image of Bobby's defined thighs in his well worn jeans.Â
"You two need to talk, hell, if you ask me, you two need to get all of the sexual tension out of my house while you're at it," Giggles erupt, "But seriously, you really need to talk to Bob, because I have a feeling that I know exactly how he feels about you,"
Sunny pushes herself up onto her elbow, looking her best friend directly in the eye, "How do you know? Did he say something?"Â
The shake of Natasha's head does nothing to quell the need to know that burns within Sunny, the small smirk on Nat's face only fueling the fire.Â
"He didn't have to, the photo of you on his nightstand said enough,"Â
#bob floyd fanfiction#bob floyd x reader#bob floyd x you#robert bob floyd x you#robert bob floyd x reader#robert floyd x reader#robert floyd x you#bob floyd angst#robert floyd imagine#robert floyd fic#robert bob floyd#top gun maverick fanfiction#best friend natasha trace#best friend phoenix
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I've finally written for the first time in months! I feel inspired and hopeful that I can share a story after so many months of feeling uninspired and burnt out. I want to share what I've written so far and welcome any feedback!
It's a little lengthy so I'll put it under a cut âș
Aaron calls on an inconspicuous Wednesday afternoon.Â
Robert had missed the call because heâd been in meetings all afternoon with clients. When heâs back in his hotel room and sees the missed call, his heart momentarily stops. Anxiety and consternation fills his veins at the sight - a feeling he hasnât felt in years, when he still depended on the bottle to get him through the days. Why was Aaron calling him?
He rubs the screen of his phone absentmindedly as he runs through the possible reasons Aaron could be calling after all these years. But as heâs contemplating the whyâs, the phone abruptly starts to ring. Itâs Aaron again. The reality of seeing the phone ring with a very old picture of Aaron on his screen startles Robert enough to drop his phone instead of answering.
By the time he picks the phone back up, heâs missed Aaronâs second call, and Robert is not above admitting the relief he feels. But the relief is short lived when a text comes in seconds later.Â
Robert, its Aaron. Pls call. Its important.
Itâs important. What could be important between them after years of silence? The curiosity of it starts to outweigh the trepidation, and so Robert presses the call button, and brings a shaky hand up to his ear. The phone only rings twice before Aaronâs voice abruptly ends the ringing, âRobert.â
âHiya, sorry about earlier, I was-â
âMum and Paddy are dead,â Aaron interrupts the flimsy lie that was on Robertâs lips. Aaronâs announcement stuns Robert into silence. Of all the things Aaron could have called about, this never crossed Robertâs mind. He thinks of the last time he saw Chas - in a hospital bed as she glowered down at him.Â
Youâll ruin him just like youâve ruined yourself
âRobert?â comes Aaronâs voice, noticeably watery now that Robert can contextualize Aaronâs voice.
âSorryâŠI mean, Aaron. Iâm so sorry. What happened?â Robert winces at the words. They donât feel nearly enough.
âCar accident. They were driving from Leeds back home. It was rainy and dark, and-â Aaron cuts off, but Robert can guess what happened next. The thought of Chas and Paddy dying so anticlimactically disturbs Robert. He always thought they were so boring and theyâd live well into their old age with a brood of grandchildren.
âWhat about Eve?â The thought of hypothetical grandchildren reminds Robert of their own very real daughter.
âSheâs here. Iâm at the pub. I was babysitting when I got the call.â
âAaron, Iâm so sorry.â Robert feels like a broken record, but what else could he say?
âI-I just needed to tell ya. I know we havenât spoken in a while, but Vic talks about you all the time. And I justâŠwanted you to know.â
Aaronâs words, for the first time since theyâve spoken, brings the telltale prickle to Robertâs eyes. The last time they weathered a hardship together, theyâd been engaged and in love. Now itâs been three years since they last had spoken, and Aaron is the bigger person to call Robert. Heâs always been too good for Robert.Â
âIâm in London,â Robert says, but before Aaron can respond to the non sequitur, he continues, âbut only for a work trip. I can come to EmmerdaleâŠif you want me to be there for you. And Eve, of course.â
Youâll ruin him just like youâve ruined yourself
Thereâs a pregnant pause, before Aaron says something. âIâd really like that,â he whispers, and the pesky tears in Robertâs eyes fall down his cheeks.Â
âI can be there by tomorrow morning,â Robert promises, mentally juggling all the meetings he will have to reschedule.Â
âOkay.â
âAaron?â Robert holds his breath, knowing the conversation is over, but desperate to continue to hear Aaronâs voice. âDespite the terrible circumstances, itâs good to hear your voice.â
There is a long pause that makes Robert want to snatch the words back and to apologize for the crassness of his statement. But just when Robert is going to say something, Aaron quietly says, âMe too.â
Any sort of trepidation that Robert had been feeling slowly evaporates and they say their quiet good-byes shortly afterwards. Robert pulls the phone away from his ear and looks at the photo of Aaron trying to cover his face because he was tired of Robert taking photos. It was the day they had gotten engaged, and despite Aaron trying to shield his face, there was a smile on his face.Â
That photo was taken only three months before Robert walked away from Aaron for good. He idly wonders if Aaron has smiled like that since.Â
Robert slumps in the chair heâs sitting, and for the first time in years, he wants a drink.
#i initially thought this would be a chaptered story but because i have so many unfinished chaptered stories atm#I think i'm going to make this into a one shot instead#this is unpolished and not proofread so pls be kind lol#but i feel jazzed and want to share#my writing#robron#Icagw
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